mouth, nose, eyes. the pause to speak
between anger and patience something boils like the first whimper
of the tea kettle. on the escape, the shrouded figure sends
a voyeuristic telex, clicking away out the window
to the receiver,
a letter growing in the dark where she sleeps.
taking hits of foam from the extinguisher,
it settles a boiling stomach. “would you like some tea”
gets turned down and
“don’t wait around all day” defines an anti-mantra.
ask to come inside all you want,
expect your telex unread.
she doesn’t sleep, but rather
faces on her far side a monitor
that captures her voyeur in turn
by red button remote clicks. a polaroid behind the paranoiac
is spitting images of himself into an alleyway.
they are both trying and trying not to say anything.
“is something burning?”