You split, slicker than a sawmill

I saw you everywhere

One hand on a cigarette

And both knees to take you there

You’re gone, but loving you is real

So’s the moon, and skinny like roadkill

In the shadow of the silver spade

I want to die out on your shoulder-blades

You came, quiet in the morning

I let you in my room

Something in the moth is made of fire

And something in me is made up of you