Hands-are-Shelves  (  Picture Series ( ii ) )

Wrist by wrist The blood sings Talking of its lives of its many births within the arching sands of death's naked breaths I hear the cackling The blood gone dry red chalk, red rocks in red teeth Dropping, falling, free fall You are Christmas curtains and curtains of red Sleek, silver rubbed on red, raw umber, burnt umber I watch, your only spectator, your faithful companion from the scales of ripped eyes I watch your face, it's wry horizon of white pus cells I know the sound of the fall, it comes to me like sex Like slow gradual hymns of pasted nights on dragging windows and walls Windmills in the mouth shredding every hint of knowledge No language enters here, particles of air standing outside, their red potato faces swollen in shame I know as I am all red A red…