We live in the places that used to be places.
Now, we’re in the crater left

by the excavation, walled in by soot & shipping
pallets. She’s put a bucket under the makeshift

roof to catch all the things that punch
through. I reach down into its liquid & grab

the razor I’ve left there for weeks,
streaks of green & gold. She takes the blade, shaves

my face, scrapes what comes off into the bucket.
I press mud on the spots where she’s cut me.

We render a salve out of rat skin,
boiling it down in a tin can. She soaps

her face, pastes the hair from the bucket
on her cheeks until it takes root & grows.

I rip her shirt clear off, dip my thumb
in the balm, grease a giant swan

on her back. The welts form
a particular blue.

She begins her cocooning, sackcloth & silk,
cardboard & cardamom. I feel my throat

close, feel my eyes go wrong. I lay
myself down in the mud, place

the bucket on my crown.
In this way, we await your arrival.