from p.4 on Mon., Nov. 16th

A call to home,
trapped words, foul mouths.

Phone like creaks.

Interrogated under a lamp-post,
funnel of light.

The phoneline clicks.
I say goodbye after the fact.


-----


Confusion painted her
face like Picasso.

Pain painted her face
like Van Gogh.

Colors coated her porcelain
white skin like spilled
wine on a shirt tossed in
dye and mud.


-----


The road beneath
the duct.

Somewhere
the car drives.

Snow gathered by the street.