Sweet, skinless spine

you never had the support

enough to thrive.

For your brittle veins were

spoiled at the hour of soul-sweeping

as the saccharine moon

caked up your eyes with

its own guilty casing.

You draw a spectral grimace,

pining it up ‘gainst a

paling fist full of shadows…

I have been acquainted with

this sanguine gravity, the one that

pricks my fingertips, cream ribbons

for the carnage-love,

pedaled between my bones.