At the bolted folding table she and I
are chewing bark to fill up mugs
    with spit. I name
this bit we do The Wound Of Our
    Going-on In Peril, and seal
it with a beaker’s drop, and let it run
the whole of the day to come,
    along with a brick
in the washing machine.

Lifeless by the degreaser is a pinkish rag
    a can of Pam and instant coffee and
the dented pack a cigarette seems placed
    half-out by design of the type of half-lit
dawn no soundtrack cares about
acknowledging. This mend
    I felt tender for
    the centrifuge hurls
apart, a product of my will.

The thing is a thing can grow from 
    anything,
can grow on anything
    you can’t see is in it.