I am located on the periphery
of a #!@! storm,
looking into others' eyes.
My own trouble with water;
my lips tremble, parched.

They crack, and thunder
tumbles from my mouth
like mould on a wedding cake:
muffled and fetid, a cancer
of idleness and cotton.

Bundle me up and send me to tram.
Lines find centres and veins
lead to hearts
of cities, of bedrooms,
and lakes of careful gold.

The rain fell through indigo night and
fluffy clouds blacker than pupils.
Quick streaks of white on my skin
cleansed my soul
I guess.

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