A thick dark doubloon of bile
fused to the underside of sternum,
rising like rage forged bleak
and untouchable: all passive-aggression
like autumn’s thousand certain deaths.
A fire that flickers on the surface
of water, tensile beyond peristalsis –
a witty sheen of oily colour, wrung
from a clenched fist of gut, its shadow
impressed on fleshy folds of fat.
The reheated rot of things just passed:
spun between one state and other;
the undetermined, once simply true;
snug gold on fingers; honest work;
belly-swelled; cold cash; promises;
and faith. She lies in the space between
one day and next, feeling the dank
night catch at the back of her throat.
(We live in these parentheses: borrow eyes
from infants and pass them to the dark.)