In the tin-can morning jagged-sunned safe, but for a raw edge behind the death-knell curtains I put on my floor trousers laying like a dog dust the colour of the moon sieves down I step raggedly through motes follow, worshipping There’s a myth that strength and vulnerability aren’t mutually exclusive From here you can almost see the willow by the bridge But (too bright) today I will just hallow the memory The shadow of the bed’s barred iron brow stretches narrowly and wide to keep me As if such creatures had enclosing wings Crumpling by the escarpment to the floor I do not dispute
