if the mould is broken

wind bubbles on tin
slate, through
the sky
a damp piston.

out the window
close up snaps
my face, against
the netting.

cold air, hit it!
lop lip it.
ledge height
guide moths to wind
tight.

to build, i suppose
an oak, an oboe, where they come
to eat my clothes.

while the curtains rot,
my tongue does
dry,
doze.

lari

you won't see me again.

across the west pier

muscles
peel starch,

chalky saccharine
digs in with sticks

and
shelled peas
clutter the grit,

clatter
the sink,
the sand.

the swearing salt.

wash your face,
looking trim.