My name is lost in a whisper, static title from her teeth
follow along the crooked pack of words
strewn like birds on a dark phoneline
picking up conversations about nothing with reflective metal wings
the sun is black behind the night sky
stars pasted to its paper place
I reach up past dreams and touch her face
my hand comes back down covered in paint
I blow up a balloon, prick it with a syringe
shoot it up with my own red blood, my shaved heads twin
I watch it slowly spin, the flat face in its globe
floats up to her hands, she is atlas the book
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