Still Blinking III

First, remove the eyelids— they hold too much fiberglass. Grind streetlight into gunpowder, cut it with gravel—snort the cocaine dusk. Take the sidewalk like heretic communion, metal-flake wine, asphalt host. She blinks razors. Stars break in her clavicle. You don’t touch her—you calibrate. Banana fingers, bruised and humming, plucking vapor off the fencepost. Storm-laced teeth. Voice as hinge, breath as cordless vacuum throat tightrope over a cheap motel dirty sink. We lit the penguin rodeo in her Glacial ribcage. Called the roots collect. Spoke in wire glyphs. The cancer slept in our gums, soft, radiant. I opened her chest found an IPhone still blinking, still ringing, with no one left to answer.