you like to be swallowed
and i like
swallows.

your skin reeks of
yesterday’s moon,
which incidentally
smells like you.

we sit in a gaol
because jail is for
criminals and we are
only immigrants to
petty theft.

coffins amuse you:
the color of the wood.
the curious shapes.
they are lacquered
like your grandmother’s
piano, a word she
pronounced piana. so you
strangled her, and that’s what
i love most about
autumn.

- “When they squeeze us the wind splinters where we used to be, which is also where we are now,” Thomas Courtney Vance