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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