in my bed is a sleeping hieroglyphic. / i am lousy archaeologist; / i cannot decipher the decadence in its curves. // in my mind is a slack-limbed skeleton, / who obeys only gravity’s authority. / i listen to the skeleton leave me with slick clicks of quick friction. // in my mouth is a taste both stale and sapid: / spent cigarettes and hesitant love. / [i guess the dentist will know our secrets] // in my soul is a manifesto and a smashed fly -  / i didn’t mean to touch him so decisively… / i’m safer around theories and things in rows. // in my ears is a time-like ticking. / it only stops when i close my eyes. / these days i’ve grown accustomed to not seeing where i’m going. // in my bones is a muddy ache. / if i had my druthers and steady hands, i’d clean the break, / but there are so many things to tremble about on this earth.