#120 - it is the season of little bugs

30.4.20

120

it is the season of little bugs

lots of them

swim from an itch so

numb number a self among       

the now-you-hum, no

make mist

and cone of wings risen

it is an age of

take myself about

kept to round by chore

be quick, brush off

and somewhere mapped

in skin already

see the mountains rise

that is the dreaming, bit

of elsewhere

and while you were at kip

luggage lost, missed bus

someone has followed

to blood me with hunt

clap eyes

then hands upon

sometimes they are

all the air and risk

you will breathe

warm water wash

an age of soap

indoors bug long gone

scratch kindling

gather for a fire

know smoke will

make a winter of

never noting just that moment

when the itch is gone