she curls the ends of her hair
in her mouth
what are you, a prize fighter?

nothing but a tartan blanket
in a wheelchair

I like to see people drink
rotten sweetness –
not much to tell.

cuffs rolled up

the light in the old man’s eyes –
that was what hurt.
next time I’ll come on stilts.

thumbs on the brandy glass,
just what is it you’re afraid of?

an erratum on page one sixteen

umbrellas past the window
she unclasps her hair

(sketch notes from ten minutes watching The Big Sleep)

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