After tagging the dust your body is made of

by Jen Tynes


After tagging the dust your body is made of


sheets flash ceremoniously on the line, in


the rain, I am a bone and I take a bone’s


pleasure around the ball joint, shading


inside the names. When I pass your body in


the hallway the illumination gives us three


minutes of standing adjacent to the fetish


dying. Electricity changes, there is no body


to acknowledge through touch, I fling forward


past my desires into the formal living room


with its collection of bells and its collection


of jaw bones. The sparkling line runs across


my statement of purpose. To endanger all


sense, I lay the body out of its own range


of prediction. Token animal, what you know


is circling the house, waiting for the first person


or its shadow to appear. Without looking


forward to sinking through the body, I am


still mostly lover position. Place the bone


in the window spider plant and beacon.


Every Thursday



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