mellow uncut sky language you perilously taught to me while beating a small fist against my chest noises, tied with balloon string and with heavy eyelids for crashing dazed visions of blankets, mirrors, rust, ashes, and bottles. the language of ants I’m speaking docile and zealous— callous, dull, and bloated with slow to settle memories. your angles and wooden faces built steeply and sparks in pale golden ingot cheeks. consider this a sort of love poem of fists and slightly arms. lost arid architecture for loudly knives and gaspings, for falling casually to a bed and we scratch on each other’s skin a chattering collection of leaves and tinsel. this our clumsy portrait of desire