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.