the needle talks to me like a baby bird. i need so much thread.
even my desires are translucent. i think i have taken too long
to grow a thick skin. i live a life full of punctures.
sand pours from my mouth. at the bottom of a well,
i talk to a demon with the same problem. he says cracked words.
i can't hear him over the desert. everyone spends
their last life as a mourning dove. standing
in a green green lawn & thinking about cranberries
& mothers & wilting vased flowers. the last time
i was really kissed i asked if i could see his seam.
a line down his back. he said, "right here." i could see
where feathers were coming out & he let me re-sew it for him.