It’s dark and cold inside.
sprawl along the wet-rat sidewalk
like gnarled starfish desiccating
beneath crunching rain and driving footsteps.
they leave signatures on the wet dried pureed rock
a brown ghost-hand spangling, fingers straining
in opposite directions.
If they could candy-snap off
and fly away they would. Alas, like the chalk
they have to wait until
it rains again
Someone had written all over the
sunburnt dried pureed rock
in front of my tower that
You Are Loved
and other such contemptuous swill in pastel cough-dust,
green like mint ice cream half-digested,
finally rejected now,
jello-sweltering between grass spades.
It’s far too dark and cold
I scream soft lyric melodies
(in my inside voice)
I expel my chiffon and fishbelly innards
(onto paper with pencil –
my weapon of choice –
the key out
of my room
is lost somewhere inside.)
It’s far too dark
far too cold
about the possibility of
Flickering blood-hearted things
love through the hermetic window, leaving me
a deep-sea diver’s shrunken head
a melting chalk sentence
the pierced ink sac of a dissected room.