Winter hits, making sour mouths twitch.
Baby bellows straight from the gut;
her mother so corrupted by the sound,
she peregrinates to the capsule.
People photograph their food
as though they will never taste it
and eschew cutlery in favour of fingers.
Upside down crates colonise polished concrete –
wooden tops pinched from nervous forks and overused china.
A mirror of how my cheeks flush when you are near;
petechia skin rolling out to my ears and down through my neck.
A human meditation – I observe your temerity and gentle harbour
like some blue night I want to anchor in
amble and drown, amble and drown.
Girls talk about adrenal anxiety –
the conversation tepid and usual.
Expected, like upturned cuffs of jeans,
crisp and sweeping clavicles of young girls, and
broken promises like webs spun at dawn.
So much usual.
Give me something I can use.
Like the weight of your gaze where you pull on my eye
(the pigmentation of an unsullied soul),
or the answer to your question.
Just give me something I can use.