Sludge Behind the Dishwasher

As the weather chooses its flavour for the hour, Stubble-ended wood shaves itself on the layers of unseen ground. Synthetic puke seeps through pores seeking to devour Every tiny, curled hair floating in the murk around and around. Pool party skies reside a millimeter higher than the tallest fingertip: Leftovers infect this mass of last meals passed on. A spindle of cloth runs out with time enough to graze my lip And still no locks of winter-lived years could sink a single talon Into the darkest dark of fleeting moments taken from a fork. Shall this be all that has come from years after that first unscrewed cork?