So, this is The Walk of The Infected Toe.
Please put your storms
back inside of me. In order for me to thrive
I must disappear entirely into the horizon
a big wet ball of hair and elbows. Ocean
swallow, format: unending.
Hold my hands and unbutton my shirt.

I am secretly terrified
behind the windowpane and want you
to flense all the verbs from my body
with a morning written in your felt voice felt
from middle corners; where am I if not
next to you: stripped-clean
and disappearing in the aubade sun.

I keep a folder of your body pages.
I know this angle now—let’s have it
suffice for trust. Our gardens through time
go on and on one by one
into the water but for its length
we weep in unison. The shape is my shape
and I will share it with you.