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To Consider Our Milk
I’ve been visited by an entire farm of sleep.
I place folded hands across my chest, breathe the phrase, You have been truly touched.
A bone sutra is a liniment of skeletal chalk?
We cry for milk. The book grows wet, stains our blouse.
If it had a chest, my small intestine would feel your softest kiss.
Somehow it does, and I grow aroused in a room without turning mirrors.
To even consider a swan-necked number makes me detect a galaxy in horse droppings
and gnats.
We’re all alike because of the single spinal nerve.
Massage the medulla oblongata and feel starlight inhabit each incarnate moan.
Ligaments of forest trees might be willow root or frankincense my mouth.
I can’t stop chalking my own framed cage.
I have been insisted by an arm, a sheep, a consigned clutch.
Somehow all the plants know my name.
Tell me, but keep it brief. Is it I? You? Us?
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