Tea fog suspended over the body

Of water- I might still be hovering over a vat of English Breakfast

Impossibly docile, like the nobler Pauline

Eyes closed, a floral one-piece

And a grandma-muscle for her troubles.


It slung down from her good arm

Tan and puckered, wet to the touch

Where I find myself again-

Wet. A droplet strikes the crevice of my upper ear

Or the cuff of my shirt

Or the flesh of my socks.

(Hell hath no fury.)


But if I don’t find myself, pitiful, on your doorstep,

Water, water, water makes a sodden pulp of my parchment

Fills my lungs like a ghastly plume

And while I will not find you with the elements, either way,

I will utter not a single word.

The End

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