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I have peeled
Off my shirt
Like the going down
Of the sun
Dropped into a pile
Stitches and cotton,
Ribs making faces underskin
There are voices
In the smallest hours
Who tumble from your lips
Sleepwalkers
Unbuttoned in the streetlight
My arms are not long
Enough for all of them
But I have tried,
My ribs meeting your spine,
A lover in the
Tourniquet position
There are voices
In the smallest hours
Who stumble from your lips
Sleepwalkers
Unbuttoned in the moonlight
And by the morns
Your piled shirts
Peal a
Reverie
~ Brendan Bonsack 2026
