Trite diesel flakes, you’re catching them on your tongue
in tar winter.
I’m underpinning falling threads when a misguided chisel
nicks your ear.
Or maybe I was just lonely, wanting a piece of you
on the floor.
The world is asking you to lie honestly
Wondering, I’ve been looking on through excavated blinds
Is it snow that’s catching shadows,
shadows from pressed finger bars
flesh thin pins lacerating this soft translucence
The dark heap of my profile,
puncturing into pitch a night that would otherwise
be white.