A word you can’t quite say without itching, flinching; it’s not easy to ignore its squirming appetite, stay your primal juddering. And yes, at night, each microbe gurns in the salty sea of gut and gullet, born again, boldly eats as you ate it, brews its own queasy tea of proto-raunch which it will quickly sate, birthing wanderlusting vigors, as yet unknown to microscience. They sashay, set out for the toes or gape through your eyes at your drooping lids, your fat bunch of keys, at this internal motel’s boss, bellhop, lackey, sat in the throne of his slumber, a mercy seat.
BY RODDY LUMSDEN
Source: Poetry. Vol. 198, No. 1 (April 2011), p. 13