March Heatwave
I’ve been noticing women’s toes. The neighbour’s lawn is a badly cooked naan bread. Someone should invent the opposite of a hot water bottle. We no longer have the right to colours. It is reflex to recoil from sour milk. I can’t remember his face: I would know it instantly. Silence like the dead air over the radio when the apprentice pushes the wrong button. Toss, tosser, tossest. Caught between reason and raison d’être. At what temperature is nakedness the answer… or is it always a question? I think of myself as a peccable woman. Do-si-do turn to your partner. Turn a cold shoulder, if you only could. Need to find a documented instance of pegs melting on the line. Skin parches under sweat. Mad as a March hare. March as a mad hair. American politics at 3 am must be in the small print of Dante. The smell of rot can rot. Edges are for falling over. Push me. Turn the wine back to water. The Joker laughs, Why so de-lerious? The crow cannot finish his last caw.
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