An Octopus Can See With Its Skin.
I have to,
there where my own skin is swallowed by rain, where
whales can drown if down too long, head extinguished by the smell
of gasoline, its station next to our house when I was five. But
all time is 50,000 spiders per acre in your dream, the blue silver
rocking them, rocking them in the dry mouth
of the wind where a parliament
of owls watch, where ants never sleep ...
Let me chew arsenic
from apple and pear seed, become pale with goldfish kept in
the dark too long, lose my balance from kindness,
like a moth have no stomach, sleep behind a Japanese screen with
toothpick boxes, cinnamon and coffee grounds and the numbered
language of reason at the back
of the throat like gemstones, cold
from the cutting. Just let me gillyflower from you your memory's
on the fire, the fishing line tied around the ankles, the black haired
eaten by silverfish that the light shines through freckling the floor
under us until
we can't stand because I want you.