the bream oscillate across my REM eyes,
seaweed brushing against me as a passing commuter
tends to with purely transcribed, false affection.
W h a t is my n a m e?8 // w h ere a m I 9 // w hati sthis 10
I realise I have never known the phenomenon of “surprise”
a pacemaker is passed on to me – a gift from the lungs of low-lying rock –
& keeps me steadily,
8 a land mass stuck in soup so longing for home that the croutons have sunken.
9 a bibliotheque of decrepit bones…spines
10 grey-green world of spores//the putrefied mortar//both bricks dear life//bricks are deep death.