The washing line correspondent.

Did i know you on the day I was born
The nurse walking away
From the light streaming in.

The words

there’s nothing I can do

ringing out

Your on your own from here on out.

The needles the thread the stitches
The ticking clocks the Virginia creep
Falling to the ground the clouds
Brewing the storms the pacing
The paper cups of the cold comfort Tea

the passing seconds
The crocodile cackles
echoes down the halls
The whipping skip ropes
The beeps tubes
and my wide eyes
And gasps and wide eyes

opening times shutter

I’m exhausted drawing in for air
The words there’s nothing more
We can do ringing out.

The hemisphere splits
The spilt blood the surgeons
Shaking hands
The life in your hands
The broken sticks
And Blood baths
The leash it let slip.