Precious Habits

The oblong path of younger skin imagines us still there. Lithe branches darning holes in the sky. Sharp needles in shaky hands. The minimal. The broader deficit. Of the wait for some reaction. The hopscotch. The stone in her fist. Electing villains. The count. Of steps. Long jumps between now and then. Heavy freighters of touch loosely docking on stubborn clamps/

Gods don their clouds and pretend the rain is our fault. Sleep like bracelets. The machine. The man. Tell em the difference. Touch decides ambivalent heavens. Dreams the charms. Skin the clasp. Woken up by the same men. Hell feels familiar. More comfortable than it should.

The windows. The curtains. The stamina of dead dogs. As we approach each other. The snake with its jaw unhinged. Easy to kill during its feast.

All these poisons insufficient.

I talk to the tortoise. He says I went to fast.