Umbrellas that smoke in the soup
of a clock face pulled from the bone by a mirror.
Like the throat of a vase used for bunches of screwdrivers
that lift up an electric circuit to find a delta of rust
about to complete a cycle of life.
Like a cathode ray tube fitted into a skull
left in an armchair where a fuse is shattered
by the femur of a beanbag girl with a bright cranium.
Like feathers fallen from a gold slide rule jammed
into the mouth of a transformer
I was dressed in blue asbestos
by the girl who trips over a spanner
as she moves into the corner of a room
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