Poetry

You are peeling me off 
like a crab. 
Time has sunk very low. 
 
For the hungry kids 
who was growing crab apples? 
 
Creating art, 
arriving between the pubes. 
 
A microfossil 
roosting within me. 
I could live without oxygen. 
 
Incandescent, 
the liquid wounds. 
I will not send any salvo.