Middle Line

Middle Line 6/26

You sleeping idol
I press my hands
along your sides
and attempt to
smooth your flesh

The cool light
turns you into a field
of hills

These are your muscles

A hidden valley
at your thighs
everything in that
blur sheen

That proves your blood
still burns in there

I run my finger
along your spine
and count them off
one by one
pennies in a jar
dropping before dumping
into a coin counter

There is a hole
in the blanket
hovering over your skin
and the halo of your hair

An altar painting

That cold line circling
your head

The day is somewhere
out the window and moving

Here
on your plinth
that is my bed

There will be only this sleep
This finger down your
brown back