The itching returns
no inner ear wasp scuttle
no sudden moistness - a colony of mites
shifting to parascopic the rythmns
of the wind in the door
no flush of wringing spider legs
digging little claws
the scrub of sand on tender groin
the tangled pubic husbands
in the corner of the floor
the clonking broom
can't net them all
Who can happily decompose
the small nicities of existance
the cluster form of scruf strands
bristled clinging back wards drift
and form into a settled niche
digging deeper into skirts
and the cracks in the continuance
flesh
the sharpened marrow
whistles, wings
him down
rings catching
wrenches his breath away
plunging with his thumb
until the top-soil muds
up his draining
being - without her
is often not as bad
as with her
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