lines

there’s dust in the cracks on the pads

of my fingers

dirt!

lying like meaning between the lines

with that kind of grittiness of

eyes at 4am

old ovens

ceiling panels

ceramic pots

eyes at 4pm

what’s that glitter — godlike — on your palms

godlike — I can’t wipe off the

saliva of your love

your obsession

clinging to my body like mildew — thick

on my breath

then we were lying between the lines

lying to the border guards —

— “get on the boat!”

that Greek boat full of refugees who

got turned back because

they were sick

you’re sick!

my feet sink into the gritty foam

of a

boat

sinking

where do you go when the dust in

the cracks of your fingertips

doesn’t lay down a dry path to walk through the 

red sea?

you’re a skyline of fingernails

clinging to the rocks of freedom

but when I turn around

there’s nothing but sky

and the dust you returned to