Floorboard

My lucky hand is cloaked beneath
The timber, splintered aces in
The corner, crevice, backpack pocket dust
And every Whitsun breathes it in
And out again until the red
Is crimson bleeding through the drawstring clasp
And hook and cellulose is wet and hot
For fifty seconds, wet me too
To catch a skein is fishing through
July September swelter caught between
The lymph nodes sliding down onto
The surface, surfacing and nodes
Could choke, could choke occipital and all
The other lobes alight, ablaze
Atop the timber armoured, flush, the shell anneal.