There was some mud dug out of his deep eyes,
white skeleton always exo on him,
always waning phantom: his restless dry
mouth wandering edges for answers, skin
only finding Epsom, abandoned lots,
lost reels repeating our one scene: he smokes
endless cigarettes while driving along
Ana Island. Red sun up at the stroke
of Five, red light, whispered lips on my hair.
I want to fold his bones back inside his
flesh, but I can’t be the one, push marrow
so innocent and clean, too sensitive
for touch. Phantom pain, I’ll rise with the sun,
no contra’s clamor, cold lips’ impression.