Bleeding things,
are they not ours,
our skin doubled, tripled,
and every remnant of us
tripling also in shadows

leaves of blueness
on white skin
leaves of redness
on red skin

yet no skin like just one
yet no touch but the one

the colors fulfill all too much
unreal gleam the milk white stars
left to grow for tomorrow

on the silken pieces
of flesh in our bedrooms

it is these
the finger-shadows
which make our lives ...
and the suns, fierce,
brooding behind our
drawn black curtains