11:05 AM

there are cobwebs in my head

and dragons round my thighs. you

are a conductor and the music is

too loud, decibels fluctuating

out my collarbone. what

makes this real, so that it should

dismember every last ligament,

one by

one

by one?

a sea-tossed orchestra and a salad of bad timing, the water is blurring

the music sheet and you stare at me, hand raised high above the

waves this is my

feeble attempt at playing the

cello but there are

cobwebs in my head and

dragons round my thighs.