A river of faces
forms the procession.
Faces as stern as a corpse,
eyes glimmering
mint and pristine.
In a dark corner
I drink black tea
from my lover’s cup –
My eyelids fall
like the lid of a coffin
as I listen:
A thick fog of gossip
The stink of talk
A slice of shine
severs with the edge
of ascendancy.
A deep knock on planks
blond hair flops and spreads
like a beached jellyfish,
legs stark and gnarled.
Andrew Spiess