There’s a spot between my eyes where you place the pick and twist, punching an eyelet, plaster dust coated in skin; beyond, a moan from the very unseeable end, I can feel the tunnel ribbed, and, like tongue finding its rotten root sharp, somehow, the blood core that softens it all— deep in my mouth blue washed window to read out of— and I’m told we’re only a third way there
*
Fuel celled shaky wolf stuttering in the tube, I’ve reached into his eyes before, I’ve yanked on some color, I’ve chewed and chewed his tripe before, I’ve suckled the milk straight from that single organ, I’ve slit his tender, heaving, buttery belly, and, with wind all around me, I’ve crawled deep into his slit, rooted around for the deepest warmth, his groans growing faint, my stickiest breath held, at last, that true freedom of this; simmered down to mitochondria splitting apart behind his ribs
*
I wish to never awaken, this constant dusk, sour sweet memory puckering the iron ore hunk of heart, pickling, then, petrified, the sky above greying folds, as if, to mark the Giant’s descent— and yet, the air smells different