I am a little hollow man
made out of bits and floor salt

I don’t want to feel it so far,
so far in from my grit

a ringing, through rags, as I
imagine not having answered,

Or filling her up with flame

The little babies would be beautiful,
and then I could run

I write a little poem because I
have nothing better to do,

and it seems like something
when something’s done,

And we can call it preparation,
because the future is always ,

When We Arrive.

And I, hollow little mince,
and, jitter little that,

Maybe I like a scoop at my innards,
weak of the night-time wait

And there are so many things
that you can do with light

and it’s all far worse, this
latent to be something whole.