Outside the skin, a wishful splitting:
now, part of me longs for Charleville
where stocking’d legs would run
like grape juices trimming me down
with the scent of bread-crust and
I’d ruin them, bifurcating skin as all
the fruits of an early autumn. A hive
overflowing with swollen behinds, humming
with their useless barbs. I saw the queen
and slashed her hexagonal garters and
sideways eyes bear softer cloth as
we read again these truncated flowers,
lost in a litany of spectral issue
dripping from your chin. We look up,
and somewhere, a child.
and suddenly, we are old.