The degree by which I wane
moves as an astrological sign
stuck in between your ribs,
in my cycle I nestle your heart
with lips pressed into the muscle itself
I then vomit at the smell I pass by in a minivan
in a commercial with electronic signals
cut down to a bare minimum
the I guess so in the crest of my sternum
unwilling to be excised it grows larger
becomes an organ    I give it a parade
for you I cut your fingers off at the hand