What can I do with this bayonet? Make a rose bush of it? Poke it into the moon? Shave my legs with its silver? Spear a goldfish? No. No.
It was made in my dream for you. My eyes were closed. I was curled fetally and yet I held a bayonet that was for the earth of your stomach. The belly button singing its puzzle. The intestines winding like alpine roads. It was made to enter you as you have entered me and to cut the daylight into you and let out your buried heartland, to let out the spoon you have fed me with, to let out the bird that said fuck you, to carve him onto a sculpture until he is white and I could put him on a shelf, an object unthinking as a stone, but with all the vibrations of a crucifix.