45*21

Oh porous rock
when the shiny closets of doom are exposed
and the feeling of boneless hand
squeezes your head
How can you not walk down the street alone
with all the frozen treats dripping
Something speaks from salivary glands
oxygen conformities
I feel better in your presence
and better still in your bed
a mirror has come unhinged
by the weight of its own hand
measuring our our terrors in nuts
falling from higher trees
Oh slippery turf
of surface so melded to the foot
that gravity is an art
a closed space
There's not getting in
but out is better
for tight walkers only live