the air is thin and grey with smoke,
a memory of a haze, not a blanket
but enough to whisper evil to inflamed lungs
to redden eyes
swollen, affronted, in bloat
an ill treated abdomen rises like the harvest moon
like faraway breaking glass, tiny little bombs
explode in the confines of the inbox
each ping adding a new knot to tension-braided shoulders
little things are difficult
big things, unimaginable
small problems of a child's day magnified, rendered grotesque
through a distortion lens 34 years in the making
wounded, eyes slide down
to heavy-lidded distance
curling away, tail around,
is all desire
(no possibility)
uneasy lies the head -
- Kathy, 13/2/14
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