Not Writer,

Gypsum in your nose
Fishstick roe
A blow right in the bush
There’s your cut.

Teetering atop stacked wishes
Wheezing high, above the dust
Your boots white stuffed stones
Your hands cracked sinks

Should man’s hooks become
Secrets you keep and don’t know
Concealed under stiff sheets
Cough.
Be still and wait.