Tuesday, 25 September 2012

Black Field Furrows


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 tell. 

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.

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