I ply cloth until

It feels like bread,

The mimic of foam

from thick seat cushions.

I’m wearing clouds,

Soft and frayed.

My bones stick

In the rigid cold,

Just like broken hands

On a clock.

The branches complain, too,

In both languages.

Given the choice to join

Their melancholy chorus,

I’d laugh like a fox:

A high pitched wheeze

trilling over snow.

I like it when I’m thought

To be deranged.

Sometimes, I eat hens.

Soaking them in ground lychee

Structures the pallet,

Obtusely tropical and pink.