Wet brain poor thing
And the head gives birth, no morphine
or vinegar, to an old kind of misery
that chased panting wildebeests,
so forth. Loud brow ridges and itching
skin folds little pirates sleep in.
Lice on a newborn still life. Whole
as the eyes tell, incomplete to finger.
Loan of a devil god come to collect
clacking on the walls his meager portion.
Letterless and unclothed, moaning at doors
that hear the vulgar worldwide chatter,
and close, it pushes, and pushes out
of the head giving birth to Philomel’s tongue.
Mere Habit 