Camphor Body

What I was missing you found.

A poster in a desolate city

city cell frequented by mortar monks.

Where I undid an old girl’s

orchid beads curling hair,

and rubbed Frankinscense on her Book of Hours.

You had no time to search for me

especially during the day,

so your tarot, painted in 8mm

Took a life of its own,

extended in frames. I slept

in bathhouses and the Pollock display,

your deleted scene with snakes in my lap.

Hematite between your teeth pinched

the clocks of weather balloons I’d

captured and a lunar bleach

made me slick for your arms.

I came home after dealing cards

with old clowns in the library’s reading

room. One, in a MOV only half

filmed the belladonna from my palm,

whispering lust, lust….

His eyes were toad jade, either/or,

a distant ore in a flapjack. Smearing my

lips with Dramamine, I dab away

continents in chemical paintings. I am

whole in your GIFS, your photo

formula, back in your darkroom. You will

add chilly organ spells to my adventures.

I am him now, and her. and the sex

of that trinity.

I wave.