scrolling
shoulders

on an
android

before sleep,
wasting

lucky
days off,

writing
sloppy poetry.

Elbows
folding in

on selves,
neck

retreating
into chest.

Antici-
pation of

excitement.
Something

new from
suddenly worn
out

provocations,
with muscle all
their own.

Perhaps I'm
simply

concealing
unfinished
products?

All I
know is

haste
will leave

my brain.

All I
know is

I'm likely
to forget,

or search
wrongly
for

ungodly,
rudimental
possessions.

I won’t
forget,

apart from
everything

I must
remember

not to.