Little frigates of dirt sail on the curve of your skin under the horn of a nail.
The water is spiked, laced with tranquilising oils. You’ve been here for what,
one whole hour? You don’t know,
Can’t be as confident as the clock.
A flake falls like snow into the furrows of a black field.
Dead skin from where you ran the nail across your brow.
Dead skin ticking down like the slow
clock telling time in particles of dust.