Untitled and Its Accomplice

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:

ochre belting

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.