Cold plasters blast on bare skin, feeling their way along,
Finding the difference in write and wrong and right, can
All lay forth with terrible meaning, across words type on the pages
So well, each checked for spelling each checked for use
Each used in disregard of the meaning, or the thinking, of it all
As it lays there, being so resplendent in its throw and touch.
Feel it words, each one losing shape before the last one, each
one taking the grasp of the situation at hand
Making it all look and smell and be so very wrong.
Sleeves too long, then too short, or paper thin in their
Covering, making the rain of the tile feel wet as down
From a droning pillow, all pasted about that face
And its mouth, and soul.