Beata Duncan
A soft tattoo
My head hurts ....
mercury is rising
in its stem of glass.
Clothes lie white and empty
on a chair, the sleeve of my
new blouse touching the floor.
Your tulips flame,
a green leaf droops and curls
by the bottom of the vase.
Snow falls to slush.
I hear the muffled sound
of things on wheels
rushing to a city desk,
where you compose a letter
to a Belgian banker
while he dictates a memo about
pharmaceutical investments,
the cat is playing
with my pills,
they beat a soft tattoo
inside the plastic drum.
Page(s) 21
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