Its voice is the thrashing of a hundred and thirteen piranha
and what flesh you see me in is loosely stitched
on the skeleton I borrow like an eczematous sack.
And I didn't choose the number of fish or the routine
that begins at 3:44 in the morning
just before the time dreams are returned to their kennel
teeth rouge, lips dripping.
After that we mostly paint in shades of pain:
that color she makes when forced into,
the off lighted purple of days old bloating
the ridges of umber tissue shaped like antlers on our back.
Later we relish our salt and wet down gristle
with a gallon of hard cider, fire a cigarette
and match the buzz to the idea of anything else.