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Then I am up from the pillow,
Draping the bed with the steam off my skin.
It irrigates the dust circling above the sheets
I threw from my nakedness;
My smooth, taut whiteness,
Now smeared with black sweat,
Is emaciated by tiny blades
And rough breath.

Here comes the burrowing mole,
Sinking his wet nose
Through my memory of secret slavery.

My right hand with purpose again,
I am always dreaming of your violence.
I am always wanting
Your fulcrum
For the breaking of my legs.

This is how ankles cry.
This is how a chest floods.