2:13

2:13. Alarm set. Magistrate from Holcomb County. Always odd. Piece of you that lingers. Pressing, strung so tight. Nothing slips. Aromatage. Should be a word. Dry smells that stay. Yellow in you. I stopped tonight to look at the moon. Bright, fresh night, wound up. I want to be wound with that darkness, but light occludes my desire, and rising, I am swept, a rush of breath. Flesh dances cold, prickling. Falling back, landing so softly in this, my place, my home. Looks like the robbers have been there, frames leaving sections of discolored wall. I am the robber. Magistrate from Holcomb County is coming. Baptize me, performing a rich séance to rid me of spirits, that look like someone else’s face. Her hands laid upon you, with humility, almost beautiful. To see you happy and excited. I press my palm into your stomach, flesh already indented, imprinted. Rest hands on my belly, place above the pubic bone, filling it, expand with night. I stop and look at the moon. Magistrate from Holcomb County is coming. Blessings upon you. And also with you.