morning lines #107

​expression is the thing with fur;
it’s the thing we keep warm until we shear it,
when, raw in the light, rolled into a ball,
shivering with a hairy eye on the door,
the mother-naked thing speaks,
not genius,
rarely genius;
but in the language of fish eggs, clay,
Silly Putty pass-the-time manipulations,
flow generators, mere distractions from
the piss and weave, whiff and leave, thing-in-itself