lamination gloss on the poolwater, concealing certificates of woven anklebones,
neon cyan contrived as fleeting gas station infatuation.
you’re turning your head, wringing your spine, all you ever wanted was to politely disagree with gravity
and all I ever did was let you.
expurgation: scrawling fresh wax onto our barren, barren backs.
features distorted, you can contort condensation but you can’t hold its hand.
what to do with these nomadic knuckles?
I’d cup your jaw but it might overflow.
I’d asphyxiate chlorination.