The weeping shell of onion skin
burns in my chest.
A fear of misfortune
undoes my shirt. I am a spade heading for dirt.
Earth be my shell
as i hide in your tumour.
Red road, your distant shadow
that comes to rest on this house.
Gnome of cloud
your changes
are fortunes.
Table of light
in your internal ear,
a child hiding under a tablecloth
peek-a-boo –
waits for your invitation.