riven by a pack of water jets
black ink of a Big Oil conclave
pen around her dewy lips
bleeding – in the wood grain
underneath the table
– white plastic –
on which the pen and an empty notebook sit
there’s a mass of flickered faces, protuberant
mirrors of the moles on her shoulders and back
and steam scuds through her nose ring
through the discs that make her ears yawn
and her mien seem unreeled, unpacked, a mess
and the faces aren’t looking at anything.
two percentage points away from rain
a few down lights from total darkness
the water ristretto-thick and sweet and gold
when the jets go off she turns them on again
but not before your fragmentation fires you
into realising that cold and quiet are the same.
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