I cut your sturdy trunk with bread knife
and take your crumpled hands in mine. I see heartwood
in your frail cerise fracture, and I spread them. I pull you sidewise
like a werewolf in the heat, but you sew yourself
back together.

Togetherness is in your membrane
like chemicals I know nothing of, but they are
mellow exhalation in the water; they are cigarette ashes in your
bones. You take them all— you take them—
and you stir yourself like tasteless cold
soup with no seasoning.

And my heart is beating on the wrong side today. So I tell you
I want to be inside you, to be in the feverish summer
of your earthly crux.

You throw a smile then you push me into your breasts.
And in your ivory, beloved darling— I find Eden in your chest—
so you drown me in damp mountains, and you cut the parts of me
that see you in wet hair and fingers in knees. I try
to rent you some comfort but you
reside in pandemonium.