Fear grips
where spaces melt into overdone forms
and talks revolve around prickly bears
like excess oil spilt on regular canvas.
The chafing of the sore
under fierce winter light, the cat's sleep is
a cancer of the senses
on a pulley lift and a U V box in the room
where we sanitise our souls in green digits.
It's almost summer and I am afraid to wax my fingers off the cover. My belly is round; it bloats with too much of sand from the child.
I sketch in terror. Sleepy and sure.
Of profane models,peaceful and pure for the mild.