The Morgue

The Morgue

Here the milky quartz in the river delivers its pain to my hands.  Sometimes

boredom cradles the climate of my skin as if a drained river had infected 
the morgue of old images, the glittering eyes of a dead comet goldfish,

you spread my legs and penetrate.  Sometimes the river never stops digging and I’m left swimming among the reflections of escaped water.