[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

time rolls up like a woodlouse and the skies

go white, and nothing hurts the way it should.

resent the years of careful compromise,

the hours spent washing bathroom tiles of blood.

you pray for rain, but no relief. dry-heave

over the sink. sing miserere, doubt

the notes, your voice too much your own. believe

the news. can’t starve the much-too-muchness out

and in the hollows gnaw at something worse.

the waiting lists are long, and you are drained.

the billows settle low, cold as a curse,

but though the thunder roars, it will not rain.

your ribs are kindling; breathe in, strike a match:

the matter’s so compacted it won’t catch.