coming out of the water
and that lingering smell,
that chill. Warm me up.
Old posters
cling to the lungs of the pool.
It breathes, don't-you-know,
in stills.
Then up
the street and new soaked leaves
cling to the brick-
work stairs and tiles
and the floor is lapping in slow, short waves.
They overwhelm these slippers
merely.
Up the street
to old films, favourites
of the staff: Monique, Enrique,
the smiling handsome one.
No name, no name.
Sweet drowse,
empty of the fight before I left and you
closed that door.
Each to our own vitro.
I'll kick in the womb and you'll
pluck out every hair to grow away.
We'll each be fish apart.
We'll each be born.
Sweet drowsiness
and that lingering smell,
that chill.
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