the purge

rush through recycled bags on a trip from winter minds.
how words through an epileptic
ride leave their glide on my tip. we ran home on the
verge of splinters, as i had every edition of the dictionary sprawled on its back.
flip the script - pages wired on
tiles,
in the bathroom i lay
careful of my lips to
kiss minefields.

look, my body is perfectly dressed
for a flashback
into you. and like a bulimic, there are battles
to clean from the insides.
heaving stocks of verses into plots of grim.
stains with evidence
on sight. a wipe from dirty and all remains white.
calculate the timing
immaculate. with the right hour i purge onto
overlapping lines - like no room elsewhere
will ever be found.

all the years on the clock strike dehydration. too
long a poem to count each hope.
the way of flower stems to mimic veins, on my hands, roots hold
wreckage ripped into pleasure.
and bodies of work in volumes of nutrients,
blood flow, white cells to regenerate the
mind from its own war.
the rubble of makeup of years.
not the be all end all
as i have years
to make the end fall to my satisfaction.