Everyone is on the scale, I’m told and that’s enough-
sometimes contact with an eye scolds like a plate hot
and the world of my dreams-
how can I explain,

they are thick and wet with the quiet of history,

and suffocating with the hot moist stink of gasoline

and always I arise to a racket of light

where numbness gives way to the march of the needle

and my shoulders are curled like the toes of your lover,

and I send out my eyes on their own little mission,

good morning, good morning

my heart is still beating
my lungs still swollen
and shrivelled,
and swollen
and my blood-
still running round headless
seemingly searching endlessly for an exit.