Shape they do,

these vague conspirators -

delusions of design in the growl of my thoughts -

attaching myself to any I,

foreseeing my accidents before I do,

curling me up in the pillows of incompleteness –

 

dread and dead, I am fish mouthed

with.

 

I would give you up, in kindness –

this on the dip of a sell by date,

my loop of being so unsure is not your

mistake –

it is not your boulder to carry plump

in your vest.

An orange rind teased away,

I am a bitter handed –

 

do not rub your eye in the zest.

 

Catastrophic and dumb,

gossiped in by my own yapping, I’ll sear

a piece of this stretch of tongue and bow you in

somewhere else to be -

safe, a sorry exhales –

and reason this, your way with purity,

 

a clasp of a shell –

the comfort lulls, sea breathed,

slipping from my hand.