Please pry me away
from my precious pages,
sticking together in their obsession
with vertigo titles and numbered typeface
fusing more kryptonite sighs.
I don’t want to be inside
another cover’s chubby nude.
Bag up these moldy rags
before skin fades to cheap newspaper.
Make my tongue roll
with another extremity,
and shred its naïve point.
Leave on these stained sheets
bread crusts, oil cured olive pits,
and round stemmed crystals spotted purple.
Shatter my blank scribbled squares,
and pour me out
into the un-mirrored glass
that I can never see.
Before the rose stems grow soft and stink,
press between my bones fiercely
up against moments of eternity.
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