Tasteless in a word is; I quickened clean-
towards habit (with an S. or a comma)
located on her skin patch, fine cracks

on her knuckles from pouring something
like Gasoline or Rubbing Alcohol.
A peeling knife toner pouring through

red cutitcles (teeth.) What is that cold evaporation
that is right feeling? I feel too soon so soft a thing
when I touch her coverd hands, latched

and removing. An iron groan, cold without.
Gorge, a sore sound running laps on
our tongues, saliva won’t mask up the tip

or forfeit the silence of ahs and ohs. she
wears different cloths taking out detritus
and she wears the same ones dealing with

the both of us. i remember her
flushing apple cores down the basket waste,
the toilet taste of rotten fruit or maybe the Persian

landlord telling her no, don’t do that, the soft
of her hands bled egregiously after years
of washington (washing them.)