sun explodes, auroras at 12

  anna k's on the bed
cracked open to part3


she sits on your speaker, legs
drawn up , bleeding for six
weeks now. you
have a prayer bowl from tibet

run a pestel around the rim, it
begins to sing. you watch her face
slacken, tho her body remains
tense, held together with twist ties

bits of fire break off from the dark
matter in the corner. you tell her
about stars and meat bodies, the bowl
resonates with her answer.






ii




anna k's on the bed, closed
but full of herself.

we speak in strokes , almost
pornographic, or that's the way
you'd like to remember it. when you go.

there is a blockage in the center
a dead place, a force of containment.









it's 811 and i dont' have time to describe
the way it made me cry and how you didn't say
a word about it. rain on the salt flats, grown moss.