I ask of you, what are the water-words?
Her movement before evaporating
and droplet-fine she finds -
Fucking hell.
Umm, nostrils and throats, or, or,
becomes the inside, coheres on glass,
races to the root of children's delight.
She does not pour herself, a solution -
He's a problem
to himself mainly.
Sex by IKEA light
is what happened;
we read sentences
we liked out loud.
She is a poem.
I am a palimpsest.
I pull layers off
as I want.
Just maybe not this one.
###
does not bark orders
nor consider mitigations;
he pushes soldiers around
a felt-green table
with a wooden rake thing.
It's a pincer movement, he says,
not-smiling with satisfaction
and, one by one, fields darken.
###
Ewen Glass (he/him) is a screenwriter and poet from Northern Ireland who lives with two dogs, a tortoise and a body of self-doubt; his poetry has appeared in the likes of Okay Donkey, Maudlin House, Abridged, HAD, Poetry Scotland and One Art Poetry.