A book, a death

The volume of my inner corpse is growing every day.

The claw hallows so as to find the pus, the rotten poison.

I am a latent dead inhabited by the book’s poltergeists.

The bookish phthisis works at my smothered closure of leaves.

Stinking atavism!

Narcotic thoughts…

Then, let’s die!

All is fine!

P.S. I hope that the broken- down yolk face of this tree-poem

To stay in its shell.