washrag raze i was sure i was bleeding. but the blood isn't mine, you see. the washcloth is shedding like the tree across the street with its scads of pink and red scabs. old skin sloughing off to make room for the new, or the next, or the never-will-be. four-fingered squid things gather on the outskirts of the sink basin's slope, waiting for the tide to tease them out to some slow surrender. i count five that are fully grown, and a fainter few i take for unwanted offspring. 221027 what's it to you? who go blather from