she watches in silence
the solace of a sunrise
the sky lies pale and listless, a thick sheave of fat and
old india ink
discarded for handlamps


a drag from the cigarette
and the paint begins to seep
in thin veins of flesh up the trellis of trees
she laughs,
for aristotle would go mad
this element in violent motion creeping
and creeping
and creeping

and gone...