I walk in awkward noon, without warrant or petri dish;

I take with shyness but give with honest, waking in cyanide.

The sleep is torched.

I, the recession, am vacillating like a moth's wardrobe; agitating the womb with suns,

I hurt in dark and light, each perspective abandons my bare portrait/cameo

with the threat of love and I cry the jigsaw that poured from every gaping heart.

I lean into time reluctantly, every sand - an atlantis,

where reigns have slackened. Still, I bloat up like a broken magpie

and forget the plague -

my only husband: The desert.