It's hot all doors open I can hear her sleep, books on shelves sleep too as do unpaid bills on my desk. A big insect lumbers across the floor unseen by the bird in the bedroom prehistoric it looks, covered by a hard shiny shell and there is an unfinished poem in the word processor, all poems are, perfection stinks. I press the stomach of my toy elephant its sad trumpeting has a distance as hearing it all the way from Africa. Gleaming of dawn, a breeze, bills fall on the floor, last chance we will come and disconnect you from the world, must try to find that insect before she awakes and dominates the morning.
