english muffin

there is a light outside, I’m unsure of

it’s a rumour of day

akin to the v-twin ping ping

of boiled eggs in the morning

and nocturnal sin

of the two acres of bed

next to me

three are taken by the sweating corpse

of someone I thought, at some point

was a whore

as we spin to face the sun

my gentle plastic scratch awakes her

sweet fat and cold buttery curls

and i thank a higher power

that she’s not my girl