Down the garden
sits a small water,
sunk with moss ink
floating its own

second skin like
a face left blotched.
Hands peel away
the tumour lips:

under dank flesh
splay young starlets,
gazing sirens lost
without their ceiling.

Their eyes are bright
in the gloom - plates
hunker foolish heads,
anchored by the stem

to murky pond-floor,
they cry up to a night
begging to be taken
into the jet reflection.