For a week now you have felt uneasy,
noticing signs. With skies even brighter
than those you dreamed of, you sensed a frenzy
in the crazed speck you crushed on a worktop.
Mapping imaginary lines across
your kitchen’s granary tiles, they have sent out
explorers – hewers and drawers – to probe
your landscape of leakage and spills.
Tracking down their base to a crack beneath
the back doorstep, you lift a mat, raising
the lid on what, till then, had seemed a time
for wine and laid-back alfresco lunches.
Merely to know they are simmering there
– obsessives wired to a common cause –
makes your scalp sizzle. They are all over
the fissures dividing mind from matter.
The worst room in your head is one
with a plaque that reads infested. Behind
the dark bureau your skirting board is dust.
There are creatures there with dragonish wings.
Feeling bad, you’ll try hot water, powder,
the sweet adhesive gels they’ll pass from one
to another. It is all a question
of space. There is no way it’s personal.