Surface, cold-swept in touch,
unpremeditated serenity in the last fetching dress
that she wears at the superstitious tail of evening
that grates like a ladle scraping rice off a saucepan
and equally grey;
the laid said the made can't take their step until
the rage belts a faint rest, waist-bound and cased out
for questions that range from
whom the clock stayed,
whom the promptbook abandoned,
with whom the slippery sidewalk made contest.