Hot Stone

Take me to dark. Take me to jade murk and high fever cliffs. Take me beyond turning bodies. I have a book of arms unfolding for you, each leaf a riot grip for your neck, your breasts. My sleep is now wraith tournament of strangling white fabric and parched black fingers. Early mornings are short relief from torment, from struggle against sunken carvings of our worn and distant faces. When day begins I drop on world, spiders on hot stone.