All is in soft-focus.
Bridges pour into rivers,
drums slide under footsteps,
vein and bone fuse pink.
Accusation is responsibility,
the burn, a slap by my own hand,
bed - a shore, the sea – a mouth,
rain melds sole to soul.
No rosy film, no decadent glow,
the fire as deep and swollen as a well –
fatter, steelier from its hibernation.
No wind can find it.
The clouds are wrung out.
Sister storm has shut her eye and
I am clean, as the first snowdrop
in February – vulnerable, bare, bold.
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