I am standing in a whitewashed cell.
I am wearing a sheet with a hole cut in the middle.
I piss in a pail that is skinned with ice.
The bed is a nightmare installation,
twists of rusted iron and wood.
A grubby blindfold keeps me warm.
Pain is chucking smashed bits of stars
at the high barred window
with caps and crowns and fillings
spat out from a broken laugh.
Roofs are near now, love approximate.
The moon has lost its purchase on the chimneys.
Frost lays in a hoof print on the tiles.
