Only at night, only by clot do I scratch, think,
I want to buy, to mark on map my stuffing
reach. Money is an idea to fabric into nothing
like money, a runway before the snap. I’m pink
as speed, a loosened chord comportment.
I wear that bug with a hinge to sting
scraps. Each click’s a look roosting
spikes back, like legs graded in
net, or debt, licked stamps
before the crush. Even the eggless know nest’s
a flat pulp, cult striating camp,
thorn to rose gold barter. So is juice
to the gartered gesture, god’s lesser
veins as rooms to loose and vamp