Lipped like

the other side of porcelain,

sitting behind an all-directions 

river of milk,

of TV adverts in a language 

you don’t understand:

a horizon just below the one 

you can see right now.

Oesophagus

(songbird’s)

Liver

(finger of the haruspex)

Fallopian tube

(hairdresser’s dream of an air vent)

Pitch + Miners + Whole armfuls of dying canaries

Body-turned-inside-out,

skin still singing

I cover every part of you

like a soft glass tablecloth

and each organ

shouting

shouting

trying to reach an other.