Michaelangelo

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The sunwax remnants of the afternoon
Pale yellow sky

You sitting
Legs crossed on your
Twin bed
Reading of how he
stole bodies at night
And cut them open to look at them.

We didn’t think
Of the smells or bugs
Steam rising from a fresh intestine
In the cold graveyard of a
Snowy night

How romantic, how awful
Night after night with his knife

Scrape scrape scrape
Blade on bone

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