6 of them

a bird will hold your nipples
and wiggle the round tip of your laugh.
if it chooses to color your tears
it will be a map on his wings.
so when it opens, fly with it
into death or death’s tomb.
let the collector hold the ropes in gold
and make a reservation for salty scars.
I am a stale voice
I am the horror wrinkle.
I am the take mistaken for a God’s tail.

Ruddapoet