[For Lenore Stephens] Why? ‘Cos, just ‘cos. Costume of customary flesh, costly. Cosy betimes as it suits. Every pore a star, every hair a comet, supernova freckles. Cosmetic? Scarcely. Costive? Hardly. Shape of universe, a matter of extremities, faraway close. Coastal co-signatory. Cossetted senses casting the eye, cocking the ear, caressing the skin, cleaving the nostril, colouring the tastebuds. While inside is mossad of mind, most maze of amaze, a mozz, amuse. Electronic mosaic. Moscow February. Moses memories. Moseys maximum renewals, a mosquito morsel meal. Mosh pit of mystery maintenance, organs and muscles alive alive-o so mossy, messy, mostly massy.