Inside Closed Palms

Combs for paint pots or syringes for bulbs,
Somewhere mingled cuts
recover infection,
drinking air-
the liveable side.


Anger-


will.


Inside closed palms,

In the movement

I miss my bracelets

they fleck noses as they grazed and swift hair
the movement of night owls,
I'm in the movement,

I'm in the movement no more.
I miss my bangels
braided tangles, and dirt gritting clean
teeth on the skin of your knees,
the dear's nocturnal
and her smile puts devils and angels at debate
from her winged movement,
I'm in the movement,
I'm in the movement no more.
I miss a solution
of a vice, melting plastic hands smoulders
but into holders of all that's nice.

The littlest hearts burst with colour the dragons
couldn't train to roar,
always in a movement.