Your Body, Actually

for HC

There is only so much content at hand

and life has become very straightforward.

One option unfolds another: touch me and die.

Reassuring as a sinkhole, totally.

Seasons come on as a sausage restaurant,

hopeful, with all its blinding trinkets

and inherited imagery. No other replies needed.

We are living in a post-sacred age, so it’s official,

nothing is sacred. It’s official: leather pyjamas.

Go away, thoroughly, where winds have worn

deserts to a whistle, rocks shaped to a gesture.

How many rugs were pulled from under us?

And will we know a burning platform among

all this interference, this life of soft graft.