Mourning wear or I want to eat you alive.
I have an invitation. It is pink and unique of all of this.
It grinds blue glass to sand, bone to dust.
It slides all over Africa, India, The Americas.
It names and numbers the blows, the freckles, the sideways glance
that is as long as you are lovely.
It alphabetizes each kiss for country matters
Strange like sea weed it weaves in and out of distrust
manuevering through feckless waters
of your underparts. Your secrets.
The way the light catches your
road-weary cheek on Sunday mornings.
When the sniffles still make you divine.