Hacked, broken, pried from the stone gold is base.
Cold, expensive – precious, yes – but still.
So it’s actually pretty simple, really:
yours cannot be made of gold.


wick and wax fold gleaming
creases into your skin
bending it into shape
until all over your body
feathers sprout
making you float
from one corner of
my room to the next

nothing can faze me
for you are the earth
and i am the wine
i pour myself out onto you
saturating the dusts and
painting them wet with
my insides turned outwards
with all that remains
for we are one
the left hand and the right
the navel and the eye
the eye of the world