After tagging the dust your body is made of

Jen Tynes

 
                After tagging the dust your body is made of
                sheets flash ceremoniously on the line, in
                the rain, I am a bone and I take a bone's
                pleasure around the ball joint, shading
                inside the names. When I pass your body in
                the hallway the illumination gives us three
                minutes of standing adjacent to the fetish
                dying. Electricity changes, there is no body
                to acknowledge through touch, I fling forward
                past my desires into the formal living room
                with its collection of bells and its collection
                of jaw bones. The sparkling line runs across
                my statement of purpose. To endanger all
                sense, I lay the body out of its own range
                of prediction. Token animal, what you know
                is circling the house, waiting for the first person
                or its shadow to appear. Without looking
                forward to sinking through the body, I am
                still mostly lover position. Place the bone
                in the window spider plant and beacon.
 
Copyright 2011 by Jen Tynes. Used with permission of the author.

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