Machining (for Tylina)

Tell me, does it ebb you?

There’s a ferric scent. It ebbs at me, drills me down, wears me in. But they brush cool water on my surface. {Bathe me in bitter fluid and wash me with sickly oils }.

Blocks of hafnium strong. thick. raw.

Skin won’t inhale petrol { rinse me off and let me reflect you, wash you in your luminescence}.

I promise light and weight and please know that its poisson has no teeth. Then the bit returns.

It wears me in.

You drill me down so careful, watching for dragons breath, touching my cool surface.

Your index barely covers the gap, meticulous. Such a slight groove

but there’s the core and does it wave you in?

Does it show you gnarled oaks, buried roots drowned in diesel thickened muds? { lay me in grass, I only feel blades,

but to want so much more…}

Oil slicks wash over the leaves that cache me, waiting, clicking, re-clicking, and clicking, re-

wishing { find me crouching splayed and distorted, I've been scrapped with diamond tongue depressors, torn like weary linen from whole}

­­

It splits the warm tissue under my tongue, and pus (cold) fills my pallet with swirls of fresh saliva. I am modest for you, I clinch my dried and crackling lips. { watch my porcelain reflect your luminescence}

Dull gray clamps keep my place. It drills me in. ­It does not give me form. Only shape.

Tell me, does it ebb you?

You are so bright, flushing with each inhale,

Pulsing with quakes as you exult.

It churns long circle teeth, we waver. I envy your smooth ruptures fused  in sparic micas. How do you solder when it begs to tare?

{ hear me silent, listening. And does it wave you in}