Cognac spills onto your triangle lace,
my lone eye lazy, tilted in dream,
my lone hand pushing the billow
of silver wake
forward into your ingresses
palatally ways,
window seared
in the dark rum
of the dog day,
insomuch

the heavy halo
noosing our sternums, pressing
our lungs flat and wide,
dust brushing the rims of us,
cutting the wicks of us;

we fall off the ends of the earth.

I do not know when we arrive.
I do not know the reason,
the whereabouts of death, of a soul’s
bones,

whether or not stains come out.