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,

fumed antacid,

ripped air

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?”

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