I am pressing my vision against the exposed beams
and the naked weavework of your clean unvarnished wood.
I imagine I can smell the belly of a ship,
my eyes leap up and imagine what your form imagines you must be.
You cause stutters and missing syllables in the words I speak for you.
I love being beneath the roof of your pale expansive wordworks.
oh to be a pine weevil in your body of thin, tawny twists & squiggles.
I know it is creepy but I dream it anyway.
For this I am sorry,
and ashamed enough to bend my upcraned neck
back down to where it should be
and burry my face in a book,
looking for some sort of consolation.