WHITE (I)
Sheets
and the rag-assed
tangle
of our limbs, white
as steam, the clean
fire of the already
damned: hot bones
and sweat. Not
love, but skin
and pulse
and self and another
self like a knot,
like the heart
of a white
dog drowning
in white
water.
But
not
love.
First published in 5 A. M.
