There’s a rumbling through the window.
The glass rattle-tat-tats, the wind
And the lungs are shells.

What cold piece of concrete I’ve found myself on again?

Liquid floor
Pieces of mould-ridden planks to transverse
An invisible fire to put out.
The rain can touch me all it wants.
I have travelled far for this experience.

Aren’t you tired of fire and ash?
Soldiers squaring up,
seizing the opponent,
drawing spears of bone,
All for the sake of justice.
Are these spears, or maybe pitchforks?

The rook I’m in obliterates all opponents in its path to destruction and I look from the window.
Bobbing apples, my voice is barrelled.

This blanket unspools me.
Am I even drowning anymore?
It’s warm and weightless in here.
Untapping the bath would probably unclog me too,
just a hair tuft left to remind my friends I was here at all.

And as the days collapse,
the chimney turns to its side.
Is it a tunnel?
Do I have to crawl through pith and smoke?
Small spaces scare me.

Crouched and subdued to the size of a moth
I chase the light to get burned.
Maybe the burn is going to finally mold me.
All my friends are butterflies after all.