Fridge again at two my lovely
and shoulderblades like butter

oven-warm with extra blood my
true and heart off beat — you flutter

wings of flesh. If they were mine they'd
knock like bone, but on your back

they fold the air, and send you heaven
bound, where clouds you move and pack

to shape your winding frame become
like lovers, close, and small.

This is more your love, this death,
what's robbed you most of all:

fridge again at two my lovely
and shoulderblades like butter

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.