Deeply it’s genetic, of all not knowing the bite taken out while you slept in your dark furspot, my same dark furspot a cradle ago, a rub rub in a hot drum. But for you it was curled, busted iron and smoke like breath.
You’ve always been jealous and the things we laugh at are never the same, parachute pants and botched surgery, things at garage sales made out of hair. Barring what we promised in the dark of winter when the electricity flew south, there’s hardly a strand left to tie us back, nothing
that hasn’t been sold for bullets or sugar. Your face filtered narrow before sunset and I can no longer lift you into the grocery cart, you’re all edges without contours; I feel around above and beneath you for the
soft place.