Thursday, 13 April 2017


After the volcano, we breathe in hot milk
to leech the ash from our bones.

We tell our brothers to join us.
We teach the snakes to kiss with tongue.

After the volcano, the marketplace is frozen
in time like a polaroid.

Silhouettes drift to the surface as the ink
names the story it will tell.

We alone walk through it, milk-footed
and dripping.

Half-moon crescents in white on the tile.

After the volcano, things are quieter. There are
no tennis games or burlesque.

Fingers dry out, fingers snap
when the wind from the east gets going.

The sun is a fat white dinner plate.
It blinks once, and starts weeping gravy tears.

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