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.
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.