Hello again, my sickness.
  I can feel you breathing
 in the cracks between my bones

like light almost,
 ripping the scrim of my proprioception
 stitch by anxious stitch —

what will you whisper into my
 crevices this time? What ludicrous promise

must the drug make, peeling open every petaled cell
 with its rain-fingers if
 nevertheless

you thirst? You are the only one on earth
 who wants me completely,
 whose tinfoil swaddles each

leftover gesture I lift to read its expiration date.
 You are the one awake

and throbbing like the nacreous
 gasoline bleeding its colors into a puddle once the taxicabs

disperse.
 When the end gusts across us
 and opens our surface so wide the sky completely

penetrates and fills us with blank blue,
  I will still hold you
 as the father holds the blade

against his son’s throat, prays
 for intercession
 and the stars shine down hard

on all the toxic bloomstruck fields of
 earth, this consequence.
 I know no one escapes.