The women he has had are all faces
Without eyes
He has entered them blind
As a cut worm
He has swum their oceans
Like a wounded fish
Looking for home

At nights when he can't sleep
He dreams of weaving
Backward up that river
Where the banks
Are fringed with mouths
& weedy hair
Grows amid the dark crusts
Of ancient blood

Tonight he is afraid & lonely
In a city of meat & knives
I would go under his knife
& move so willingly
That his heart
Might turn to butter
In his mouth