Bedsprings crochet bones together.
His back sutured to dreams,
gripes still stitched to gummy joints.

In the toilet avoiding the mirror
humming softly
shunning conversation with himself
the ceiling drips a sump of oily memories.

The park--- Frances revolves confused
“I don’t understand"
-a phrase with self-winding words.

A slight miscalculation
a turning away at the precise moment
she turned towards him.
An error of timing really.

Frances whirs on, "I don't understand."
He understands she overdosed.
He imagines this power over her life
to be his. It feels good being that lethal.

Time whittles cavities with calcifications.
Softly the spine of a storybook breaks;
where one stitch patches a sorrow
a spur prods and rips.

When he listens to the hollows
between the long dark vertebrae of his life
he hears a theory crumbling away
under slow grinding teeth.















(C) Eric Ashford July 08