poem

the chair reclines
happy to be a chair today,
my mouth jars open and contemplates
a roaving gleaming point
my tounge seeks refuge
looking for a shadow.
Finding a corner empty of noise
the tounge sits in thought
of what might occur if found
by it's hygenic enemys,
although all the worrying
has sent it to sleep, dreaming
of a drill eloping with plyers
and they holiday.