A tepid nose pressed on the glass,
the fishtanks' in which marbled golds and putrice swim
surrounding the tossed gold coins in whirlwind movements;
I liken myself, akin to those fish:
with their glassy eyes and ink pot irises
that would drown your soulless pen and ink nibs whole.

				Ten hands stuck to the bottom,
each with a ring upon their wavering fingers,
questioning their worth at the nether edge of an elder soup;
where time sticks like oil to fire,
and all wretched earth and soil are turned to silt in the
silicone jaws...
	O amphibious beings,
take unto yourselves the obligation!
At the end of this day I am your Master,
where the flowers and the fats in your first name
are washed a away.
We become the ebony husks of someone else:
someone else’s hand I lost to your kind long ago,
one I cannot reach for the stench in my hair
thick, within its amorphous malodour.
		O lungs of mine, 
you swell with analgesics,
the salted water,

of a long forgotten dream.

© Eve Redwater 2012


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