Frames get dusty;
books are musty;
when a player turns
the pages of a score
there’s this crusty sound.

What else? I’ve forgotten my Klingon.
I open my mouth. Light pours through the dark
jigsaw of organs: the wrists of small birds totter upright.

What did I put
In my suitcase starting out?
Old scars and clever tricks,
Social misery and emotional demons,
Vices and fairy tales

I am the worm in my woman’s head.
the worm in man’s writing.
the wormword or woman-man.