This has been the season we splayed
in rooms rewarded to us for an interlude
by the ruse of others, well
and coldly lit. You played a long,
sometimes fitful song while
my insides turned within me, the tissue
outside its place, blood
the wrong color. Ache has forged a lack
of precision, I noted roughly
as I laid and, too, I weighed less, worried
chore-like that these ragged
words might slip, be burdened
with young meaning and I would be left to
console my personal science, a fold
of languages. The issue of the raged
cells executed a regular cycle as
they became reworded, displayed,
and unaided again in bed I misread
teaching for tending. Rebellion made rifts
elsewhere when my edges disordered within
or yours bloomed into orbit, time to
lounge, to long, to lang around as ages riven.