You scold my wailing arms,
stuff the lunge of your dudgeon
bunk in my chest. Some blood
dapples my breastbone, derisory.

The air is aspic; it clogs
my answers, glues them fast
to my wasted tastebuds.
Have a stab at my breathing:

juddering, my flap hands
mimic contrition. They push
anxiously outwards, sensing
the muslin of the silence.

Copper my eyelids. I lie
rolled in bandage, the fold
of grey gauze stricting
my wailing arms. You scold.

From Looks Familiar