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The  sirens are gone now
                               Decaying with the city swirl-

                         Its rectangle of light can’t catch the infinite tan of your skin
                         As the pulp has fallen flat over searing bone;

                      because outside is the eye of the scorn, of loathing, like the root of
                    fire on your chest’s arc,

                     Like the song of Seraphim--

                   who exhales chains that shackle you in your own bedroom,
                   the shroud of blankets you lay under-
                
                     rippling breath
                     Named skinny by the gods,
    
                    they gave you a scale to meditate on
                     or a meal strewing a heavy odor only to be heaved back up again--

                     What faith locks its gate until 
                      slivers of dark seep in like murk in an alley 
                     
                    as you realize that darkness was only simmering hunger, 
                    something sepulchral gaping with sooty lips; 

                    Last night you spent drifting in sedation from pills
                     you thought could only make an oath of credulous dreams

                   or a shawl of skin that wrongs, wrongs, wrongs bags of saggy flesh
                   to be weightless from feminine ills.

                  Skinny: the loveliest of Eve's children;
                   she lured men to chase her, offering their lechery and love

                  like crushed cranberries in a rust pail- 
                  her heartstrings were painted gold with scars erased

                  And she, like you broke the laws of the earth:
                 a killer who did not know what could kill.

                Now as your heartbeat turns to the sigh of a riverbed,
                brass air against your belly, you decide that oxygen will replace a heaping plate-

               a gnarled fog beneath your palms which kept time silent;
              pressed against the cold dampness of your chest.

              Speckles of mud on the mind’s dew: it is here that after
              joy's mate dazes you with its mill there is only blood left

             stilled from its own tide, as you have drowned a singing girl
            And gave birth to a void-- no candle can move the salmon of your flesh

            That withers in the fugitive night.
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