Tiny jungles long since slipped
Spinning, soaked, a little vortex
That carries gutters out, away
From ledges where parts still sit
And talk of dancing women.
There’s moments, caught in sand up there
Burned to glass, new shapes, old hair
Bulbous, wet and hanging
From the blowpipes of a year
That a part of me is straining
To turn into a cup, again.