Portraits in antiquewhite via the frostbite on your lip
The crow acts as a olive plume,
the roughness of stately dysfunction,

just a phone
call away, paint
portraits in antiquewhite

while the bathtub fills
to the crease of its lip
and I can see myself mirrored
through your eyes—

we are not ghosts,
our belief was bargained
from exhaustive guardians,
and the deviant christ figurines
punish and suckle the mind
like ungrateful bedfellows.

I am kneading the frostbite of your
lower lip, running my tongue along
the antiquewhite line of your teeth,

breathing you inward
via prophetic portrayals,

we are spooned,
slumber heavy
in the humid sections of
our fuzzy minds,

the moon is a red
curl, the tail sharper
than a ballpoint pen,
and the oblong circumference
of the venetian blinds
becomes a bone across the bed,

pull the tether taught,
watch the world unfurl

a bay window,
tree line,

paint your picture in verse,
wait for the future to unravel
like words,

the poem is
just one word
after another.