They talk about everything so coarse and grainy-
but not my mouth, empty and cold.
Lukewarm particles of mother’s voice
White/ blue/ grey-
I see shades of attachment and delirium.
Together, through a visceral bone,
Skins aglow- white talcum powder all distorted.
My dressing table is a desert.
A pause. Concrete and blind sun.
I watch my image as strong as an eel,
a pivotal insect preying on itself
frolic, lurid paper towns-
all departing my marigold fingers one by one.
Counting stops and so does the nuptial song
with neon green signs, and yellow street children,
the hem of my lips, spiral now.
Here- I go to my bed..