Mean while awashed in the putty
and petty in pruitry, we labour
to stave isolate, in a way me as dandy
and here you tapping on the glass,
treading brine in the other jar. Don’t
you know me by now? What.
With no stitch of close, embryoed
via softshore float and stuffed
under a two-tin lid. Me, boy. Maybe
were it not for the jarring, we’d even be
umbilicalled. Yet we too are kept a feel
as pulp mash for the screening trough,
await on artisan’s whim, even
made of stern fibres to scrub along
the complex curvature of our inner housing,
but not likely to loosen the lid up top. Still,
flipped and fetal like the chance de maldoror
in a doppelgängered image suggested
by glass, rain aside and mouths wide.
You see we're nude, fluid move
in our amniotic drip. You might wish
to rush to crash and hoist me to your flowering
dug. Instead, we flatten pliant heads
that may the better be full. And hope.