After tagging the dust your body is made of

                After tagging the dust your body is made of

 

 

                sheets flash ceremoniously on the line, in

 

 

                the rain, I am a bone and I take a bone's

 

 

                pleasure around the ball joint, shading

 

 

                inside the names. When I pass your body in

 

 

                the hallway the illumination gives us three

 

 

                minutes of standing adjacent to the fetish

 

 

                dying. Electricity changes, there is no body

 

 

                to acknowledge through touch, I fling forward

 

 

                past my desires into the formal living room

 

 

                with its collection of bells and its collection

 

 

                of jaw bones. The sparkling line runs across

 

 

                my statement of purpose. To endanger all

 

 

                sense, I lay the body out of its own range

 

 

                of prediction. Token animal, what you know

 

 

                is circling the house, waiting for the first person

 

 

                or its shadow to appear. Without looking

 

 

                forward to sinking through the body, I am

 

 

                still mostly lover position. Place the bone

 

 

                in the window spider plant and beacon.