Bathtub bright as bones, full of mouths wrought with dissent and tulle–
Body, baby, with mellifluous flesh, a skin balloon peppered with limbs, that come two by two:
Ankles swollen like peaches, strung with a botanic widow's lust;
Collarbones, pellucid, of the child who was never lucid, that press against the throat,
that are pinned by the noose of Hell, that gather a film of shadow;
Shoulders that throb with the soft,
righteous bruises of being animate, here is the scorn of swinging doors.
The blithe sunlight swells and dips between the door-hinges at dusk,
sunlight that is unforgiving,
stale light that gives the taste of moth-wings,
light that convulses like a chromatic scale,
Light like chrome beneath the orphaned hands of the sea.
Dark hair and buttery dirt knotted around the drain,
peeping upwards, timid thorns into a porcelain palm.
A pair of taps like pearly stitches and paper anchors,
taps like sepulchral mirrors, streams of dust upon paint upon glass.
The tin jug at the window-sill is
Offering a bouquet of sunflower spines, with humbled daisy heads that
Plunge downwards in haughty circles, fluorescent vultures, the bare teeth of a natural guillotine.