I am far sided, I see a sea of intimacy before me and I grip my own shoulders.
Shaking sense, I try to whisper into my own ear.
But my mouth is too far away to share this pleasurable secret.
I am waiting, waiting for a black train to follow me into my bedroom.
The black train in my bedroom rolls around and around on its track.
The black smoke begins to take over the air and I reach to open the window.
The silver crank falls into my hand, no repairs are possible.
The only thing I can do now is shove the glass with my feet.
I am shoving the glass with my feet but I have not protected them.
There are no socks and no shoes to protect me from all the falling glass.
I wear my bikini, it is purple but almost black from the moisture, injuries culminate.
Thinking I could drown the hot coal in the train, I uncoiled the hose from the garden.
From the garden I came in and drenched everything, but smoke does not shudder.
Smoke is still left when there are ashes, smoke does not bend but for the wind.
I turned all the fans on high and left smears on the switches.
Each gleaming white fan switch was stained in my blood.
The blood from my heart beat into my limbs and out onto the floor.
The window left a broken heart where I had kicked through it.
The garden door closed with the hose still on.
The room began to fill with water, it washed out the train.
Water climbed up the walls and consumed my world in a flood.
Books were each sodden with their covers erased forever.
Pages began to break out and flow, flow out the window.
Each book I went after slid through my fingers and vanished.
Nothing left to read, I sat on the floor pillows and watched.
I watched the water rise up the walls and encase the television.
More water began to lift the paintings from the walls.
They began to swirl around me, and I wanted to swirl too.
The swirling began at the ends of my hair, and my eyelashes.
The black train was gone, with the books and the paintings, yet,
The agitation lifted away and I could breathe like a mermaid.
The bleeding skin of my lower body transformed and I swam out through the heart.
Cat Over Clock:
Some things are more important than time ... cats are one of them. Welcome to a world of photographed shadows--I invite you to a study of compassion through poetry. It is with gratitude that you might take it with you.