Memories

                 

                  It was Wordsworth who watched the pebble 

                  Circled back to the edge of the Pond.

                  Our eating, our movements take us back. 

                  Reminding of our past

                
                   Of having no appetite,
                
                   She laid there comatose,  Her tit dry.
                   Who was that? My
                   Tortured movements.
                   Kill that blob of fat.

         .