87
SOUPY
POTIONS
sleep
old
name;
erase
this
lame
membrane
of
days-‐
where
tracks
of
trust
go
to
dust
and
empty
in-‐out
trays,
crack
like
blowed
skin
under
amphetamine
sun,
remembering
how
promises
persist
in
metaphores
of
mist-‐
and
that
box
of
rumours
the
neighbours
hold,
like
chocolate
tumours
behind
lace
curtains-‐
knew
your
rock
fired
the
clay
and
shaped
his
pot
to
aroused
assertions-‐
then
the
moon-‐tide
quickening
and
6