So the sad adage, of The Body
lingering
in a Trace, of your Lips’ refuse
a refuse of the scattered
cantata doing the Work, you know
over your Mouth
in a Murmur
rising
to the Eyes
iris, focusing
on this Morning’s
ob-
solescent Texture
under
lying the falling-though
sensation, in that way
love
shits
its
given way say: It wasn’t
the Body, that you
held in your Belly, round
in it’s rolled
& up was the Ruin
of the Production
of Intimacy, quavering
in the an
nunciating shit-mouth
shitting-out
it’s shitty
pleasure