against the marble my flesh sings
a wicked song that echoes loud,
spinning rust across the floor and it
pools in the cracks, trailing after its
master and owner like a lost wind
blowing only where it knows it came,
and against the glossed obsidian my
nails tap a funeral march in 3/4,
screaming for a path to follow and a
day to be cut: the tassel of my ring
brushes on my knuckles, brief and
nearly just a glance, a passing, a kiss
on the rough skin, and it sways like
a hypnotic snake stuck to its pain:

against the marble heavenly light
spills forth, and across the top of the
grand, I read that it has been three
hours; a vibration is lost to the din
of my hands, and i cover my ears
with my palms, cowardly and pitiful.