It is the

desk she should sit at, more.

Half-open window to

a rose garden,


apposite to nothing but

full of desire –

   full of ‘if-onlys’.


She cups palms beside her eyes

and squints at a

pleasure that

is not hers

ignores the ugly-either-sides

the cracked walls,

   and the doubtful bolts.


The clouds are grey,

and pale taupe,

lurching through

A muted picture,

her very own zoopraxiscope,

silhouettes unfurling on

   a curved-bowl-sky.



is like milk in the

back of her throat,

like thoughts sewn

tight to the strands

   of her spine.


A false flower threaded through

an empty, clear gin bottle.

A streetlight droplet,


The fracturing eyes

decide which face to crack ,

   with vulnerable, heaving breath.