Numbness fighting the frazzle,
an o’er-brimming buzz of static,
and flexing-remembrances of breath.
Limp features draped in the underworld’s
mirrored canvas; hair: rustily greased,
like cooked wood – scaly, slick; a smack
of her rose-bright lipstick in the eye of the
double-glass. Hunger and survival sense.
The first dawn when theatre-dust fell tonight,
mixing with the dew of the lights, drizzling
baptisms, accepting our trading of vows.
The split-moment came, as he said it would,
when I stood there – between thoughts –
soaking it in, with the thrill of stillness in the
epicentre.
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