Our role is this, we say:

This scratching, scraping away.

The uncovering of what’s beneath,

Beyond this silky veil —

The eternal exhale attempting its escape through my dirty mouth

The terrible shiver shaking it from me

—  And all that waving of hands last night

looking out on this anthill

—  this swell, this swarm

this bratty child screaming.

From that black tarry square

Where we soiled our seats

Looked into each others’ wild eyes

Touched each others’ green skin

To share that breath

And all those pinholes in the deep velvet above

Suddenly swelling with every drawn breath

—   And to glimpse the other side

To pull back the celestial cloth

Our twig fingers thirsty for it

Stretch upwards

Shadows on our faces

Discontent with this slight taste of polaris

Bathe me  — envelope me,

We scream

Accepting no less

—  Drown me if necessary

Just give me rest

All that my skin can no longer hold

Will make stars of pores

Innumerable grains of sand

Benjamin Schwabe is am a writer and musician living in North Brooklyn.