it grows inside like a barnacle
clinging to the side of your ship
in lustrous green, the lusty mint
of age. after death, this is a thick
mistake, a bedroom in which to pull
the curtains, writhe instead of sleep.
know your sin and call it by name.
invite him over in the night, kiss
his neck as if it were a planet
out of orbit. it is a star that blisters
your lips, cries when punctured
with a pin.