My time would be running if it had a place to hide
Filmy ridges of my interest bids to fly in the riptide
Back of the bug encloses and traps
Outside the warm inferior chance to fly
Mind filed down like narcotics in the spoon
Melted just above 232
She drops it in the drain
And knows why so she holds today's paper like fine phyllo
Her ceiling looks like pepper
Her floor dry as bone

It's not a good sweater without the holes,
Artistic and shapely, the sleeves sewn for show
The leather of your sailing shoes gone