Snakes for Arms:

i)
Out
of me and back in
through my side
they patch
with flurry a drink
fully
laden with
highly
spiked
empty
talk

tweezers that
pick open stitches
you brandish
to free threads
from holes
open
a grave it
pricks until ashes
crumble into a
lack
of form

Dust
pack into bones
to click to ivory
underneath
sheer
lace and silk
hollow
is the
space
between two ribs
crossing misery and
taxidermy
maybe we stuff the
holes
that cannot be sealed.

ii)
I do hope you
accept my apology
caught in web
stained with soap and suds
hanging precariously
from the wall
like laughlines
and hotlines

iii)
Trying
to beat you at your
own game is a
matter of deception
the sole purpose to
let you win
the trough of ice
to pour over guts in
case I want to punctuate
sentences with touch.
Trying to beat you
at your own game
is like swimming.
I can't.