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
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
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.