What disgusts us
is us. We disgust our-
selves. Our cells
are not what our
selves want to be
smelling especially,
sloughing east
and west, secreting
north and south.
Take a good look
in the mirror - the eye
taking itself in:
the wet and bulging
tenuous attachment,
the red and rooted
scream of it.
the subtle bone is wound round with supple
memory, red flesh and hairy darkness
because in us are absences and traced razor night, the stumbling dance
of sensual corpses falling like sunlight
reflected from a lake, one that is wet
and not much else,
only the scent of water and sex to regret, bodies
and the subtle bone in them,
nothing else left.
