In his arms
she is anorexic
Interior; if her
sheets are a cloudless blue
cream cups, indian tobacco
bloodstains conjugal
have faded to a rust, or worse
if Mud Brown—
then his are louche
Cunt of evening
opens up

and I want to
fall asleep, please, My eye
can heal overnight
it’s too unbearable to recognize
how one wields hate
as a tool
to heave
it does not heave
it’s like the crescent moon
it Swallows