Blue bubble of imagery
Still captured in a moments melancholy
The open lips, breathing awfully
Stop upon cold paper.
Musing on pictures in the national gallery
Nothing unusual, I tell myself
The eye fractured at one-hundred- and-eighty
I am not as steady
As I once was, and I have been funded
To tear my life and occupy a house.
I have been granted the hot steel knife
Of infamy, where the thousands flounder
My tongue as ragged with sand
And hand pressed close to the glass
Where there is something crushing.
In the low lights
The public walkways are occupied
With the slow act of pursing a mouth
On a plastic cushion.
There is a medicinal precision
To how the clock ticks
The bones in my skin set
Like steel pegs
Cold flints – will not draw fire.