Until morning, I thought, there is no water.
There is water. There are spiders
and sticking plasters, the flaked skin
of verrucas shed and to come,
and the chlorine haze of a light-sleeping
swimmer turning over miles away
in search of the perfect stroke,
of the far window of blue over midnight’s
last, gulped deep breath
bubbling slowly towards dawn.
1 comment:
can feel the texture of the deck... the word verruca... just right
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