You’ll get lost if you keep that shirt on

You’ll get lost if you keep that shirt on

You’ll get lost if you keep that shirt on
your face will fold like a fist in a cleavage,
your breath will scatter like ash off an edge.

You’ll feel the bacon fat ping of elastic
as your eyes head out on string
to peruse car boot sale brooches laid out on green velvet.

You’ll see your skin, sheath shivering,
at the incinerator gates,
rash burning, grey cabinets of organ donar details.