the curtains are hung carefully-
the smooth fabric
falling like butter
warm, moist folds
that transform colourless windows
into subtle angles


i am the curtains
milk for skin
and devoured like hot,
summer whiskey


other people are lampshades-
sallow light pooling
under their eyes and
cheeks, shadowed with
stringy fans of wet eyelashes.
they glow with a diffused light
humming on endtables
or hanging-
above two old men
a voice like a train,
a voice like an orchestra,
eating fried eggs with slippery yolks
and the waitress
brings more coffee


i am curtains
i am their hands
as they cut their fleshy eggs
and thumb their
dry old lips