I think of red crawfish crawling over a naked body; dangling from strands

of ashen hair. A human starfish sprawled on white sand on the curved edge

of the sea.

A hundred years ago, it was 7 am. Beds rocked softly 

on cold floor like empty peanut shells. 

Rooms and Herons

She opens her eyes and watches sun rays scuttle into the room on hundreds of tiny clicking legs. Her skin is still moist with sweat; sheets cling to her like mouldy wallpaper peeling off stained, yellow walls. She smiles. The corners of her mouth tremble and flop like a captured trout.

Fish glitter in the bright dawn sun: lonely heron wades through torn lily pads in the shallow water.

Chain of axioms bound around a cardboard soul -
The night wears on, wearily.

I disassociate myself

from me: cluster of whirring atoms coated in flesh.