who taught the man on the bus he could pendulum
into my seat / that his hands should search for my thigh
i make excuses into the window’s eyes like maybe
under the underneath where power feeds the machine
he was cleaved too how he cleaves me
i like to imagine there are a few things sacred left strewn about
my knuckled keys sturdy in curved palm on the walk home
this is a night i want to survive
the weapon here also opens the door
is power like any body
/ does it want to be held?
who taught the men i invite to rattle the wind
from my body
i’ve made the best of it
/ turning whiplash into windchimes
bells fill my home with nobody
but the safeness of sound
and never once has it been just the nameless
shadows drape the darkest from the people you trust
what’s the difference between respite
from the sun and how it’s getting a little chilly there
where can what’s cleaved also be cradle ?
i am safest when no one holds
