Everything is opposites: you fell asleep lying down
so your top is your bottom, and your bottom is your top
and you are solid in the wrong places and soft where you should be strong.
A drop of blood at your nose, congealed around the roots of whiskers,
and a gap between your smiling moustachioed lips showing ivory incisors
and a gash of pink tongue that once felt like soft raindrops.
Puffs of velvet fur spring in angles I have never seen before, in my arms
so close your very crimp is visible, I can see your molecules,
beneath the rigid lids there might still lie
the swimming moon of your cataracts. But why would they
when the curls of your legs are as unstrung as
Odysseus' abandoned bow and your middle
doesn't flutter like it used to. Down you go to the Eternal Burrow,
with Brussels sprouts for the afterlife
and a drop of blood on your nose.
Copyright (C) stays with me.
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