Dusting the footstools
in a sterile area,
perched in the fur of the indoors
with a bottle of blue spray,
moving like a turkey,
lurking in a hollow hour,

cave of the ink
that extends transparent limbs,
hill among hills
calling hour to hour,
patchwork farm over
digital echoes,

shell of the one bewitched,
the waste that hurts and the pearl
earned,
ship starting from leakage
and revolting beyond the sun,

a joined lung in tatters.