Soft parts of my floor and

Soft parts of my cup of coffy.

Sun bloats across the wall,

Softening things into one day of many.

Pixelated holiday. All the interesting bits

Are hard to see.
When you have smudged me, brushed and pummeled me

I will mumble something about having nothing to say.
Except: check out these spurty oranges.

We eat them in car,

Become those kids you didn't want to play with.

Sticky fingered pigs.

Dust to slash dry creases on my knuckles.

I end up bleeding in the heat.
Turn off the wave-machine.

The Mediterranean is stagnant hot.

The stones are round and good for chucking.

I can learn the birds. Learn the language.

Check the auguries.

Calm down.