The cold curse carouses; she
rolled her R's in a circle.

The poor cup of rubbish,
tipped out and over

three half-lit butterflies
wings, snagged

on a wasp-tooth. Perjury
to link in & watch

the idea returning, repeating
on itself. You're mad, you're

puppy-hair curdling
on the stone wall.

Breathe in deeply with me,
motorist, does the smog

hit your throat at the back
as good as his rejection?

Meteorological
sightings.

Was I pushed too hard, was
how far up

from where she jumped
were the

red finger-marks?
Pulse on the window.

Copious beauty
sung on her lungs, pillowed,

shying each
peppered disappointment

with one cold, wet lip,
pressed to the other.

Copyright © Marianne Morris, 2004.