Have Hands Will Rust I Must Confess

the rust will shine through any war and through
these echoes growing in my cupped hands
the lovers in my guts light up cigarettes of meaning
among velvet paintings and yellow dust
nights deathly light as honey smooth the nerves like wasps
their speckled asses facing front
plus the purple breath of the sleeping times the dead
erasers over the caress of every surface
a bit of red-raw feeling removed
which leaves or leaves perfectly nothing behind
the body always wanting but to replace periods with dashes
far along the perishing of pages
the sun and oblivion becomes a trifle
burnt out the days fog
poems on the self-same streets of another century
indeed the close-fisted blows of the moon
pound and resound through the gentle slop
of the atmosphere of our words of our circulatory system
my cuticles grow toward you and only you
it’s implied (see figure 1.1)
such flowers claw toward lightness