The semaphore in your chest

Washed my clothes

Lemon, verbena 

Eucalypt, a medicinal sting

Of bleach and comfort

Surprised you are still there

In the fibres, furred

In the burgeoning way

Of new growth after fire

While you breathe

 (I wonder why

we never breath

as if life were always in

that past imperfect tense)

The parallax of your chest

Shrinks and swells

Swells and shrinks

The curved shape of the world

I hear the semaphore

The wind-torn page a violation 

That I can never read

Hum a see-saw song


At least

I’m not growling