It is a silver snail between the lips, cold as a quarter bitter as a penny, Not even the aftertaste of chlorine. Patchy F# smokerβs exhalations Grit the teeth and the ball of cork lolls in its belly. Look down your nose it looks back at you, Blurred.
Look back at you. On sticky tile bare toes clenched, and chin lowered to chest, pool-parched lips Took the Acme Thunderer andβ Blew.
echoes whipped from ceiling to surface to bare-slick backs of streamlined swimmers. Spines curved into finsβ Lungs collpasing slow as a circus tent Even the bubbles tittered with reverberation Faster.
Not a splash as pointed feet flicked at the ankle Casting expanding triangles of wakes And lips kiss-close to the plastic lane line Breathed. And finger-tips yearned for that two hand touch.
And nowβ Blow. Only shivers of sound. Just spit it out.
That unmusical clang as it hits the desk. Exposing distresses of is and was escher-impossible to tell which is which. Waiting for that hollow echo of high ceilings and deep water.