This has an edge It ambles around, dragging its tails The residue of an unpleasant dream It is mine now, the time Thickened and stewed into a shadow. Or grilled on top of a grin Laden with metaphores Stomped, sealed, suffocated. There is a rift in my open throat A slash on my paper Something is written now Do you see? Black gestures eeling Around the spine. Coiled into a spring I sleep into the womb Trembling for tomorrow.