purse scent

i.
builds with
a grumble,
low and dark and
sure to grieve,
not in the east
but contained in
a fault of gold.

donned slaughter
fits like a second
or hundredth
skin,
so royal are
the hues within!

cloth brittle,
each of adam's offspring
staring down that abyss:
don't make me
end you.

waste of liability
cursing each new forehead,
one day you'll bear
this cross.

ii.
built on the
slumber of the
cold and marked
and heaving.
a knot in the east
maintains
a halting hold.

sons and daughters
grift like lepers
under lost
skin,
so toil the
refuse of men.

hospitals
unseat the atoms, rot gleams
warily into that abyss.
slow breaks
upend truth.

waif thighs crave stability,
pursuing proof of stead.
one day you'll wear
us raw.