Little tumour, you’re a blip
on the radar, corner of the body
dust is swept in. If a mirror
took negatives, archived them
in a blender and let it dry – that would be you.
Indifferent continent where metaphors go:
zebra mussel, surgeon’s golf ball,
a connect-the-dots dot.
Death on a rusty tricycle.
Claustrophobe, you ask for a little light –
lungs open like a pair of hands attached to a kid
at the beach, open-palmed, saying, Look what I found.