I am standing in a whitewashed cell.

I am wearing a sheet with a hole cut in the middle.

I piss in a pail that is skinned with ice.

The bed is a nightmare installation,

twists of rusted iron and wood.

A grubby blindfold keeps me warm.

Pain is chucking smashed bits of stars

at the high barred window

with caps and crowns and fillings

spat out from a broken laugh.

Roofs are near now, love approximate.

The moon has lost its purchase on the chimneys.

Frost lays in a hoof print on the tiles.