DECEMBER

I hear you at night 

disappearing into the walls 

the dampness from it clings 

like a burn victim sheet in summer 

where no partition can hide the numbers 

 

a plastic plant

an automated service 

retina scans inside the clag

at the end, so hold the bag

you are the before and now 

the two meanings of coruscating 

the coverings that feign innerness

a living language 

as parlance undertakes itself 

for the variance of paste 

it seems as if parts of your story 

were left in the sun 

its spots obscuring  

which is the correct side 

of the reinforced glass 

 

a room made from curtain

a bag ready to carry 

the spare clock pieces away