by Mitch Marti
1.
swollen ear where he toyed with fresh piercings, lips a renaissance, teeth thunderous, constantly
pulling, tugging at the skin that’s left, claiming what might’ve been.
2.
bloodshot, holy, holes without glory, a symphony of petechiae, siphoning desire, lodged at the
backs of throats, kinesthetic, inelegant, uncalled.
3.
impounded into the neck some purple irony, i have waited for the becoming to take me and
it has unbecome.