My succubus, my slow
syringed sanity, take me
by the syllable.
let that wine-straw sip free ichor
from the arm, ink from
the faulty pen that stops
for a lunch break. Dysfunction,
B minus, just irony enough
for someone else.

You ask me
What god likes his tables?
I ask you
What god is made
of his tables, breathes them
and bleeds them?

At home I could see myself
easing into new linen.
Leaning back in the bed
and feeling
something slight leave me
like a memory. like a word
that's done it's job, moves on to
the ears
of frequent fliers, bloodless raisins,
someone's stimmed secretary

Before the last breath
flatlines. My words go out-
like all words go out-
like a nightlight and

the room hues pink. the
pint plumes in its new cocoon, is
swapped for the next
word, the next
stanza.
A scared med student
skims the pages for
the shortest ones to read.

You ask me
to remind you
why we stay here

I tell you
we lay, breathing slowly,
Bloodletting, freely writing for
too little a living so
somewhere, far away, a sick girl can

scrape her knees
and bleed poetry.