An autopsy was being conducted
to silence the rising dialogue,
pulling out the lethal crunch
of scripted history.
You want the kiss of a parting grain.
A secondhand face crops
up in a newspaper. Are you ashamed
of curtains? They have covered
all the skeletons. The tangerines,
why do I remember them
like juicy lips in the dark?
We are going to bungle together,
decked up to receive the body
of a honed player.