The Island

We live on the lighted face of drying black ink

Where from our cryptic piercings

Tip toe delicate golden cuffs

Attached to dollar coin watches

With fancy wood like finishes and

Initialed casings.

She swallows her watch

Because she likes the way it looks in her stomach

With her hand pressed against her naval

And the seconds push out like little feet.

He pretends its click is a crack

And talks about it

With white teeth and elevated chins

Like it always knew he was there.

And I use picks to pull mine apart

And place its splintered lens against my eye

So that it scuffs and muddles my perspicacity

Of my companions

Whose names I can’t remember.

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