Kiss bitten, self-inflicted
swollen lips; crescents of upper teeth
digging into skin into flesh into blood
until dragging gloss over them hurts;
kiss bitten, self-inflicted
swollen slips; hickeys in
the sunset, reflecting the shape of
what we thought death’s
mouth would be, up there trailing
beneath the lines of heaven
(raking nails from the shoulder
to the tailbone, clouds leave
evidence of escape, and like
a crime scene we watch dusk
like a ritual).

Kiss-bitten lips, they say.
Kiss-bitten lips that have
never seen another; self-inflicted
moons digging in; then up there,
as an angel falls,
the sun reaches after him,
comets.