After breaking my daytime fast, I’m where the bombing judges gay people,
Where there’s time to form what I’ve eaten into phalluses commemorating love.
And my soul says: fondle babies high in the unseeing.
For if the light drips from a corner, the little genitals stagnate.
And I dream a movie of the tongue’s miscarriages:
Its constellation smells coddle submarine shells drunk on spiral eyelids.
My sleep is glaucoma and depth charges falling through martyrs.