I wait to come to good. I wait carved
from the same war, wait draped
by the mechanism between myself
and fabric pleasure, how pressed, how shut.
The icon I remember is ragged
and full of brown cardinals.
It sees me, parallel shoulders and not.
The young thing in a frame.
A slow press of film I wait for to ripen.
I am asking this of you. To see things out of order.
My body's floor bright and fixed with you,
clay mask powder in the tub and sink.
The finest way to avoid is through the body,
getting out so quickly it doesn't deserve
the name of leaving. I reveal the ship's bone
like a stammer, magnet a napkin of sage
to the fridge, fruitfly blood on my fingers.
We can't go back to empty forms.