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.