semi-finalist for the 2015 Tarpaulin Sky Book Prize
immolate (v.): to allow him beneath your breasts, what bee-sting chain, navel to neck.
when the shadow of the chair, alone, is long and pointed
or misshapen body, I am at it,
pulling out the drawers, a graceful vase and naked bulb,
I am wanting to get between floorboards,
nicking the joints.
when at night the plants extend their green saying I can, I can do it,
and I hold all things inside me –
I went home in the middle of the day and left my shoes on. I took my shirt off,
I left it on the floor of the bathroom.
it took me hours to take off all my clothes.
it took me all day.
if life could be a small lamp, and just the soft flick of my finger.
I mean, me in puzzle across the sky.
(read more from Forniphilia at Spork)