A leaf-curl sneer As if autumn fish-hooked petulance From the wet corner of your mouth Almost lemons The laundry scent Not quite a Sunday seaside Still muggy with The thick damp cloth Of March wrung out Until your paled hands Annoyedly dripping Slip on the too-tight, criss-cross tap Overcast and Creased as deserts Speaking sideways The cement sarcophagus deep Strands of hair and muck As grim as pharaoh’s echoing Coriolis voice Rictus lips and In the darkly narrow drain, a glint
