All halted elegance, you make a paper wolf for me then blow into a bottle for the howl. We are so merry in the belly of July, knees pressed together, kissing as we eat, while west, in Gran Dolina, the intact skeletons are spread with tools around a cold hearth. Trouble yourself: they are deformed by a hammering for marrow along the longer bones, and on the templar, blackened. When man is a study of cut mark and fracture, woman should be wary. I am not. Cloud-tails float high, uncombed, as I, with found weed braided simply in my hair, lean to your mouth.
Your scrunched eye seizes, sizes
me up: pulley-roped palliatives, craft and lies.
Washing my hands in the back, I wonder:
what's a good death?
Of course you held on and I held on to you.
We had married ourselves to a trance.