Moult

The dream moults me in the deep of night

and goes tripping on urban streets
slow blinking milky sight spread wide,
rehashed the tread of heavy lead feet,

 

my mind rolled up like a yoga mat

writhes, and flesh resonates and turns
as it stops at a lamppost, scans a map,
outruns the roads and then returns.






My bug is back!  And a different bug here in the air.  But all well so far with us.