From the Fishouse

Morning comes into our room, sun through blood. The boy is pliant in bee pajamas. He is plush as a chair in a loge. Love, love, carves out our ribs. We climb around a bare cage and link fingers. Love has made us sharp as broken bottles. The boy’s cheek is soft as a stamp pad. He is dreamy as the street name for an elbow, a couple of ankles and a cup (all we have left to give each other). Get up, get up he calls, clear as serum. We do pour the cup with juice. You and I dissolve at the edges. We are naked to microwaves. Our chests hurt, we are excavated by his joy. His stories run over us, so loud and round-edged and strung together with so many dazzling downed wires. World, we hide our craterhood from him. World, I never thought we would be glued so quickly, two stems to a branch, together. Goodnight, our pulborn. We go willingly into extinguishment. We look at the boy and our hearts [flash pop cloud glass] blank out.