Hiss. Make eyes
And his hiss, too, make it.
Make eyes
Make them wet, and round, and soft
And unassuming as women.

Slack and circular
With lumps of pliant flesh
Strapped easily in on all sides.
Favourable response sought,
Give it,

Or be tracked.
Through a garden grove of spray cans
By a grey man,
Leaving silver hairs all behind,
Be tracked.

And like it,
Like the feeling of being catalogued,
Catalogued
Called up, resurrected and sat down.
Don't you, Silverfish?

Won't you turn into this?
He sounds as though he is deflating.
Make eyes;
You're pretty.
Pretty, hung up over there.