The submerged antipathy pops up
For a gulp with its spine-lung
So it keeps the kettle going for privacy’s sake
For the collected sludge boiled down to
I’m hopeful but the overstatement is also
Pathetic, thus the vegetation
Imagines harmonies of illusion and whatever
I’m still just fidgeting, fidget, fidget
Whittling back bones out of crusted
Milk gobs. Looks like a stick maybe,
Brush off the ants and lets have a see
What’s buried init.
Crisp vacancies, some
Looming hope out. One edge sparkles
Under there, slick like fish bulge.