Drugged all night, the sun’s filthy lime,
sticky against the window,
and the lips and
in the veins.
Not the needles,
or the heartmachine,
or the tails of mops the size of rats or the
untouchable breasts,
through the gowns,
but the duct in the corner
of the room,
which hums inside the wall,
and on the surface,
the strip of light covering it,
a gesture towards touching,
a kind of breathing.
– ph 15/4/16
Isle of Hoy 