Opening Doors

Sometimes I

think we are different animals. I tire of sleeping so helplessly
damsel and cute
and then falling apart daintily, like a good piece of steak or of sky
and waking up sore
and opening my mouth

The fact of it is my

body may or may not be, and you are somewhere else. My muscles
hurt from opening doors.

In theory I love everything

our skin, cattle, bones, and things without names
the dream-like afterglow of phosphates
appealing to closed eyes

and not the tongue. What opens, what’s closed.

Regardless of the ways I lie
it is always dinner for someone else. We
are constantly becoming

smelling footsteps until the clock bursts.

Maybe, today, you are the clouds and not their shadow.
And the wind and the garnish
from last night died, again

a noble death before breakfast.

I am a sleeping beast edible and alive
like anything else, like
the breeze in your hands, some days roaring, some days

overcooked on a beautiful plate for the starved.

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