cricket snaps at his ankles, there is no time to delete: only this pounding woman in his wounded ear screaming all the things he never wanted to hear and telling the stove top oven pop loaded on top of the rain not to drop the thunder clouds and open fire grills. to lick the window sill and soothe the savage beast within, he looks into the mirror. entrails of photographs, he relives the deadly moths. they were caked on the screaming toddlers mouth, he cried to sweeten the marbles on the floor. over his head, wondering which clock tower the staples can feather, the curtains open to expose the wicked way of the ceiling fan.
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