Or, I Dreamt of You Last Night
I picture your insides deep
in the pink of you
as you fold yourself into nowhere.
I see them
doing their job.
I feel your abdominal wall, the obliques,
their extension, their dull pain.
Muscle fibers like thick, fleshy
strings pulling your tailbone upward,
sinewy in the way skeletal tissue disgusts me.
You’re on all fours,
big cat stretching,
nerve endings receiving
some cosmic compulsion to move.
You’re crawling and stuck,
plunging into black,
into the soft, wrinkled cotton,
the polyurethane foam,
A soft haze vibrates through your skin
so that I don’t know where you end and where I might begin,
but it’s something I feel for in the dark,
an immaterial edge.
And I am under your foot
between your tense arch and the bed.
I imagine it.
I imagine you crushing me.
distending the pliable rubber that is your body,
a tight-lipped lily that hasn’t bloomed,
its skin: synthetic and ripe.
I lick the ground you walk on.