Pale blue butterflies slither away, from my legs to
the bed, edging astray in an incongruous sway;
off my knee with prickly hair that fence beneath

my ankles that unleash the weight of years six-seven-eight,
The Melt, of Dalivian time, off my arms where battle scars
of sordid past stand upright to hold their feeble mast,
where loony fingers drudge to impede the Dali-vian death
of melting skin like clockwork orange
of dissolving veins blue and green,
of crawling ants out of my iris
in a ceremonial march with banners from ’84

the crimson liquid corrugates between my thighs
I crush my shoulder blades with vigor only to
untether the forces that hasten to partake in
the tableau of my defenseless dissipation.