We are made from fragments
of eternity cut to our size
-Helen Cixous

inside of you a thousand words silenced
to become bodies in sleep.

only a paragraph
only a long arm
or aging face can be heard.

            would you want to hear more?  

a rusty hearing trumpet, a scratchy microphoned
voice, we fail and become part of the world,
then white fur appears in the living room.

what do I do with you?

tasting like soil, 
disintegrating lengthwise,
revealing bone structures of your newly
webbed hand.

kissing in cinematic episodes
falling down stairs like dust.

you prick me with horns
you hand me a cloud.

apples wake up
and behind all skin is a song.
            this is something you've
            taken as truth.

we asunder out the door,
where a yellow car
            remembers your black torso.