long lost and other fragments

the body is a false idol, a cathedral, a corruption.
familiar curve of agonizing softness crowned
with a golden halo, hides no profanity.
your face, every jewel that glistens mockery,
leaves a dry reaching, a wrap of fingers through cool bedsheets,
combing the skin scented wake that draws an unwilling body
across the mattress
toss sickly through my bed of sand
small, empty universe of dry silk
of latent windows

under a thousand miles, buried by trees and the folded arms of one hundred sleeping cities... and the sun rakes the world open like an eyelid. highways, footpaths, and country roads tie bows around your secret location. banal code of landmarks and zip codes describe your body, apart. corporeal topography, anywhere but here

ballad of self imposed isolation, hours waltz in and out like they own the place. trying to tell myself when and what to feel is the ghostwriter of all my greater misbehaviors.