Raised Nubs
looking down
to a patch of road-marked tarmac we watch balcony rungs make shadows more gaping than geometric you firm your thumbs through my belt loops tug absently for only forty minutes ago we were fucking partly magnetised mostly bored though in the meat of it all we thought in unison again again again * the sky is packing in I can see clouded dullness on your back can feel it on mine road shadows blur further into road and under it we are pressed together slowly we roll and smoke roll and smoke * at dawn I walk to work along marked lines my hands force dough warm tuck seams under leave each bun trembling roundly as its neighbour rising white elastic buttons and ginger-wine black clove specks thin flashes of lemon soak currants for tucking into pastry buns and eccles gloss under oven heat smooth bread tops split open milk and sugar glazes crackle on pastry hot currant juice runs and stains my hands shake as I sit on the toilet feeling at my rawness the last bit of your heat all morning I have been giving and now my body is cold * we will take to the balcony rungs take it all down because three-dimensionality has become unnerving better to be flat like tarmac to project our bodies onto blank walls today I lose a finger tomorrow I will lose an eye in atomistic squall I can see you standing in uncut grass mouth cracked open into a sharp-toothed smile and then your lips disappear you are climbing ladder spindles you are climbing until there is no ladder you rise in fuzz in soundlessness and I roll and smoke but it comes out in clouds from my chest middle I breathe in fuzz in soundlessness we will run our fingers over the flatness look for a raised nub of screw on wood look for some small trickle of the third dimension
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