Quiet

those fingers will no longer find a home
as they did in their seventeens,
counting out patchwork pathways
laid upon my flesh,
I am as venus'
diseased layer
of unfathomable cold,
all aether and emptiness,
bones left beneath stars,
hair stretched beyond hands,
your body now
to my eyes
the scale of an ant,
pupils grown telescopes,
neck extended,
almost disconnected
and when I remove my dress
there'll be nowhere
left to roam,
no retraceable maps,
no hips to hold
just a fleshy sac
without the mind that escaped it,
took to sailing,
hepped up on lone-wanting,
wandering the ancient sea
toward the motherhome