revilery II

There have been few words
these seventeen days -
my words instead
riddling in their bodies,
writhing around their arms,
fluttering in their oesophaguses

my words have been spinning
in their pretty little heads, their wrists weighed
with the binds
of my gravity,
done up by the ribbons
of my mind

out from their arms fold my thoughts
I have unwittingly asked them
to hold a mirror up to me

and so
instead of talking
to the page, I have been
talked to
by my other

- that angry
dark-haired faerie
has let loose, in the dripping walls of
this third floor on Cuba,
rattled by tens of tiny ballet shoes
and buskers' strings. I have
held white up to my eye
and though those whites weigh heavy

I am all the better
for not having slept.