“Analgesic”

I cough-raid cupboards
by the jaded faucet, turned too far
to the left. The candle stub
goes weak at the knees and melts
as I crawl to the clawless bath.

I over-turn buckets, pour
intrinsic arteries over Kit-Cat
Klocks, up to my earlobes in
tick-tocking tremors,
smooth-talking adverse effects.

I anti-inflame,
time my spontaneous combustion
with a crackling digital face,
hurl over-the-counter
on swollen, ginger finger-pads.

You tell me persimmon is the color
of your perfect sky. I sit simmering
over Greek flames, licking jellied
seeds from your fingers,
cauterizing your nails to mine
with my tongue on fire.

I carpet-bag clear plastic
orange I can’t claim holds anything
but exactly what you know.
It trickles out your ears in
shivering strands,
what you know.