Hunched in clothes the colour of false memories
square to the grey horizon as if she might distil salt
her face takes residence in the fading wet pigments
fixed with cruel textures of time’s striation
beneath the tension
beneath the unmoving moon
words ticker uncontrolled behind her eyes
these are familiar words to feel them as if anew
descriptions of frequent un-witnessed scenes
their power is for her alone
she has departed for a place she can not go
stopping at recriminations and un-answerables
we text and wait for her return
John Daniels
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