Ores I

We bore holes in us, as if attrition comes naturally.

Water does what water does, slowly builds more layers

while time comes on and throws us under inch-

thick crusts of residue. Slapped on fast, this way and

that, varnish up our weakest points so we can’t see

despite being flush against the panes – we stay

sitting, smoking slowly, refining the crudeness

of our gestures until we pump ourselves outside

                                     –

even then, nothing can remind you of the day

when our selves glinted, shiny new:

hips crackle and spit, and something silver corrugates lips

with not quite words slagged out in heaps.

                                    –

We grow inside houses, this much is clear, yet

our hair stays flat, we count the days in single strands.

Reduced to a specimen, a set of samples:

hours kept stock in breathing bowls, broken bones

pile up with kisses, the taste of iron.

My memories clamber under skies,

fuming full of smashed clay pots and the days

when our mouths moved, and music came