An exchange of two surfaces
both dosed high with hormones.
Policies, mine, prevent myself
from committing malpractice.
Surviving a grand opening, myself takes in
patients, providing the most basic.
            Dying is so scary and bad.
Myself was made to make difficult
the possibility of dying. How, in the face
born of intention, maintaining biological
life, could the desire to die make sense.
            You should leave your phone at home
            and go out for a walk. It is fall. The leaves
            are still red, and it isn’t too cold. When light
            from sun is set at such an angle, things are
            so gorgeous outside. This will remind you
            of how gorgeous things are inside.
How in the face: desire is the proliferation of exchanges.
Myself, bearing bottomless sex organs suitable for affection,
becomes a welcome site for any other that looks me over.
            The mouth of my lover’s hospital
            produces spit. My hospital’s opening
            mouth makes room to receive the spit.
            By way of a glance, my hospital demands
            my lover’s hospital to coil, grasp
            around my throat. The hospital
            responds accordingly.
                                                              Is there anything
            I cannot internalize. I have
stopped going to the doctor’s since a misdiagnosis.
My teeth hurt, and I will keep them. My headaches,
occurring more and more frequently, hurt. I will
keep them. When reconstruction seems impossible,
one must be willing to feel lots of pain. I do not
like pain. I want for the grip of my lover
                        to hold, even tighten, in order
                        that I might be held. My desires
                        slowing in order that I might
                        part unperished, biologically
                        refuse destruction. Displaced grip
                        instead arresting my quick belly.