The nap of a martyr's sulk, deep self-immersion,
garden chat in the mother tongue, making it about me going into complete nap, the queasy guilt of it, the body weaker now than for anything else.
Mind sheared, blood wire-tapped.
I felt a play for influence, through the charcoal static.
Disloyalty, I think, but a fading chat best left to the grown ups.