The slow and burning fire rests like the ox.
There are dung beetles on the floor, living smoke
reaching from the nostrils, branches like mail across the wire-hairs of the chest.
The feelings are woven deep into the crutch, the slow motion of your hips in the tub,
sipping my milky fingers from the jar.
dash into the sidewalk,
brace the hood against the cold and the sharpness of heels
live like wind, do not stop for boys, or men, and obey the silence,
cherish the moments of calm, when the anger rustles the brushes
and the pretty teeth are clenched like knuckles.
padded hands and feet slink in the dawn’s purples
calm the devils reaching for the temples, finding the lips and gasping for air
breathe the silence,
curl deeply into the heartbeat, forget the girl
at the bathroom door.