watching the room

an itch of a word once etched

unto mother’s blue under-belly

  i scratch, i turn to it, i edge to the

rumbling cut of a stark tide that

ragged-struck beneath god’s throat, could cease and

crawl to it’s own absence, shaking arms of

a speechless beggar’s noisy plea,

the tit of a floor-board

whom which you drawl-on into the night to say,

see my skin, i too can writhe

forlorn

like your fox’s plywood face

presence in a dull hum answers, coming forth

a shell of desolate, unmoving drawer

was there once a face in the mirror? did it care for me?

grown from pin-pricks, the thumb dances for you

it cracks and makes out a breath