Something in the way, she Still-lifes.
Like the me and er in g rain in wood panel churches
The pattern of **** all on off ice celings
Like layers of mast I cated gum lining busstation stalls.
Something in the way, she steals life.

There’s Something in the way she moves through.
Like birds hunting, the living immobile seed
The creaking of limbs… when there is barely a breeze
Like dragonfly wings, stop. Motion. Flap. while perched on me
There’s Some/Thing in the way she choose grooves.

There is Some - Thing in the way she rings.
As Larks whistle the will of the Sun
Like church bells hail ing to the heat-hens
Or the si rens of emergency fading into the night
There is something in the way. She pings.