The woman’s voice gleams with oddly translated survivor guilt.
In her arms I’m breath held in.
I’m many bipolar suckers pulling the trailer park of a lung.
The rise of the capillary roams fruitfully, but it too must burn.
This is not what I meant by Martian technology.
In the woman’s spurn my balls are her stockingless bronze.
Of the many intelligent dogs she fucks, less than one of them is me.