March 3, 2011


You are laying on your side, pale moon silk molting into mattress. You are bent and still, listening to the other end of a wire that's stretched taut across hills, buried beneath black cities, under moss, piped through rivers. It spins into my mouth, wraps itself like a bandage on my swollen tongue. Each time I mouth a worm word a thin trickle of electricity follows the light night path to your bed, your ear, your wet lungs, your silver, shimmering skin. Don't sleep, not yet.