In the fifth stage of sleep you
you open me up. Down the middle,
the head separates, then the sternum.
The pelvis breaks. Piece by piece, I vanish.
Every time, the hand provides. It is
supreme. I am magnetized to judgment.
But shame comes easily to those who wait,
doesn’t it? Where there should be
paper halos, there are dizzying roses. They paint fields.
Among them, two scorpions plunge into
each other. Both of them are me.
Faced with my own flesh, I endure only what I know:
Rage-possessed novas searing though darkness,
the hearts incessant monologue—
all blood and bile and bleating rain.