poorly wed and stitched through time, like children mobs who hate all lines,

i rip apart but hold together, knowing alone this dust-bred weather.

the attics sneeze, the basements web, and i can not escape this bed.

i’ve seen more rooms than fit a view; i wear no distinguishable final hue.

but laughter hides these crack-lined pores; important debts carom these drawers.

no child awoke that twice sealed womb, though pups have kept me from the tomb.

there might be blood upon my shores, amidsts these threads of splintered oars,

but who can know, who’s not slept here?

— solo, that bloke, with Caul’flow’rd ear . . .

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