All firey truth and hot iron,
It comes like a green faint
Or a pass-out from drinking feverishly
The hot iron cooled black in
Pondwater.
I can no longer see
You in the cinema
I can no longer lie in bed
Stick the reel on under my hair
And in my ear
And watch you move
There are photographs
Stills that might be you
Or might be someone else
Probably your head
On a different body
The bed grows deeper.
In my mind,
You are a gallery of sores
That I will enter
Only once a day
And it is currently
That wet black
Hour
