A heart, papery like moonlight’s bitch,

burgled a gape.

Webbed in rib, it cooked

itself. A cluck of beaking men

opened bins and threw

lovers in to simmer-stink like burnt olives.

Pop. The toaster.

You walk around me,

tracing circles, winding starbeams

and prising guts from potholes.

Sleep. Shell me to pieces, cold and nerveless

with your clammy cockle-hands.

Sieve salt, baby. Bolt.