She is in me, almighty in increments.
A measured Archimedean
With method so patient it is almost sentient;
Snaking slowly
Around the same point
That always looks different.
Distant, somehow.
She is on me, my opiate Mandala.
In rhythm, she moves
In the grooves of a treasured record,
Driven into my glacial pallor
With a hammer, of sorts.
Behold my ancient tattoos.