You text two kisses

to my words and moon and three.

Despite the constant sirens,

despite the smoke

I am ensnared inside my body,

My body inside mine,

As graphite flakes rub against paper and

whisper softly to the blank white,

Maybe Orwell was right

So much of our dictionary would make fine kindling on a cold winter’s day

What’s it like to have scabies?

When I was 17 me and my brother built a pull-up bar

next to the log cabin in our bottom field

rigwelted

spun

is beneath my feet

slipped between the grass and tarmac

after Steve McCaffery.