In another universe there is a room
where we sleep like planks.

Sawdust drifts from the bedding;
an apple in the mouth of the wounded.

There are nine parts to this story,
and a snake that takes its time with my throat.

Sinew to sinew is penance for wreckage.
For illicit tincture.

Bone to bone is how I say let me live
in your mouth. Let me sleep in your knee socket.

I am trying to pin something intangible
to my shirtsleeves.

The amulet could be anything.
It’s not a sign of my lessening.

Someone has replaced your heart with raw meat.
That delicacy. I’m working on a trick

where I come across sated.
Where I don’t remember how to be ravenous.