Skin stretches over bones’ threadwork
And worms to a crease at the head
The nightclothes where the faded
lady lurks
Alongside the unmade marital bed.
Brings her knees up high to the
ribcage
Yet her hands cling white to the
sill
The silt of the tears of the window
pane
Such finger-marks scatter and
spill.
But what for each foot flat upon
the floor
Like the hunters gore-spattered
game
And the redundant roll as old
breath pours
Into palms shaken senseless with
shame.
For the night still thrills with
his flickering tongue
Iced like the ceremonial slab
Which grows white beneath the cut
cloth hung
Close to the wrists’ blood-ruddy
tab.
The tap of the thumb is dripping
still
Eyes a faucet forced open
The curtain of cold caught in a
spill
Of this certain domesticated
emotion.
