Such bounty and still no coil. The hoses
are blurry in a pile, intestine code
pre-wrapped like Christmas to the bow.
I’m prepared to give a planetoid
over for our survival, that and some cream
wafers. But that is all.
Nervous congestion. The sealing
sphincter.
Rheumatoid-ocerous. Room it old. A room
filled with thinking, about forgotten giving.
One commercial of society bound
with phone wire.
I’m not getting a signal.
The mast is shy of its antennae
so the messages are coiling in the hall.
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