Fear is a blade held in a lung.
The sky lowers an inch each night.

Play pin-finger till dawn, you have ten.
Keep sticking your thumb in a socket.
Electrical or eye it’s all the same.

You walk through the room like an aspirin.
Sleep is pointless when day is night.
A lump of ground rises to make your sofa.

When you breathe, you create the clouds.
The clouds are a loose brain of lightning.
That is not something to celebrate.

You did all of this and nothing, take credit, or don’t.
Eat praise like porridge, drink anger like poison.
Both leave you full, exhaling sky.

A knock at the door, but the moon
covers your mouth like a mask.

Robert Krut

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