Bones. Bones are what I think of.
And the moon. Bones and the moon.
Tonight, the dead will touch
the living while they sleep.
Tonight I will feel the blood coursing
through my veins. The bones will click
and clack together. Come here.
I want to kiss your costume and tease
apart memories like pulled pork
and swallow wine in gulps while feeling
your adam’s apple switch. Come here.
I want one last ghost waltz before you return
to the other side, one last skeleton frame
dance in remembrance of the death
of no technology. Bite me on the painted lip.
Seethe through your teeth. Play a deathly tune
on that fiddle made by dead germans.
Swallow the moon like a pill so we can watch
it slide down your esophagus and shine out
like a lantern through the cracks in your rib cage.
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