An autopsy was being conducted
with brutality
to silence the rising dialogue,

pulling out the lethal crunch
of scripted history.
You want the kiss of a parting grain.

A secondhand face crops
up in a newspaper. Are you ashamed
of curtains? They have covered

all the skeletons. The tangerines,
why do I remember them
like juicy lips in dark.

We are going to bungle together,
decked up to receive the body
of a honed player.