A body and a nightgown

And what passes between those two entities

Is the way that I will take off a thousand eyes for you as I ask

What do I have to squeal about anyway?

The tree bark outside your widow watches the rags streaming like tiny mammals from
blood’s pocket.

*

Rose-stiff I go or You do

Into the long cave of the flashing off

Of all the skin that hard song

to make doll faces, in rough places

Is all I remember.

*

This type of prank is the sound of someone returning to a seat.

There is not
the sound.

The shawl smoothed round
and
a torso is then a spinning voice
maybe hearing your step upon the porch and your camera clicking away to make
frozen-still morse code,

a flip book
a strobe light that goes and goes while the brain writhes in blue

in your pocket
the weird sketch of a wolf with human hands,
holding them out like applause and interrogation, his mouth
waiting awkwardly for receipt.

*

A man covered in silver gel that streams behind him
as he runs
on fire
in the meadow of oxeye daisies
is now on your porch in his red t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and he hoots
A rag through your door.

Come see the squirming stream of what passes between
a body and its garment.