On the Deck of the Titanic, Smelling Ice

 

In Winter she skated in with Dylan Ray Bans and a Swift red as lips stained with tools,the coldness refrigerating her eagerness to bless herself, Father, Son and Holy Spirit,with that old Hollywood class and noir dirt and grime like sour candies that said whatit said and seemed to say more in the blank spaces of a thousand yard stare, her Eyes of Horus peering across the trenches without looking at the blown up parts of people planted where they should have known better than to be, rotten trees of feet and arms in the mud, the soles sloppy with trenchfoot, a foul odour on the cool breeze of grinding ice.

 

ⓒ 'Moth 2020-2024