Listening to the boiler quiets the whispers
between my ears.

There are days upon days
I am tired of my echo

…

this hollow cavern, this body this skull
I am lost spelunking myself

this fire the only proof of the proximity of water.

…

Do you like the self you see
when you wake the oogie woogie?

…

Give us then the bones: the teeth marks
have their own story to tell.

His heart is a hollowed out tree
downed in a heavy storm.

…

The sky is full of lurking cities dressed as clouds.

The wake they leave make for choppy water.

…

Wait. And wait. And

…

Whispers. They are indignant tourists and terrible spelunkers.

…

Georgi, call out the oogie woogie. It is time for a dark mood referendum.

We are tired of the echo.