There is a fascicle
Of anticipation in
Labour inside my
Brain – where
Hope can spurt
And spit through
Chance. Though
I see it I can no
Longer nurture
Matters of disgust.
There is a funeral
Inside of my eyes
Which sit like the lazy
Cup of tea on my
Table. And it whispers
To me in the warning
Of a night so coldly
Scarce of cheer.