Nails that rake
far across closed backs,
mind's all but grinding teeth,
granting rings of thyme, and smoked thin
it shrieks amongst feathered
patience.
Jaundice all sentiment,
and rack my nerves
a blaring sparking
mess
for I brand my black grin
like a whiskey bottle brown
found, but in gutter glinting
fevers-- down swims my nerves.