by David Milligan
we appear as ink
dropping
into pots of white
glue
and then not stirred just hovering
they will harden
and the ground will open avalanche strains
and their skin parted scribbles
and the stickling protector fence
comes alive in the steam
with the dope wolves
high place
one last final
rising elevation
then the blindfold ski jump fearless drive
red rimmed balls spinning fuzzy little sockets
and microscpoic hairs and pores and living life
swizzle stick together inside your little arm
in your armpit flesh grows the smile of my children
children
we cannot see or feel each other
but drop kneeling without nerves on
a potion mixed and attach ourselves by thin red line
and sink in the bath letting go of the edges
like soap between hands we sink in each other
we would shrink and soon vanish
if not for this
blood
 

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