Pastille de menthe

It’s the word that lies, not me, you know

what – what’s it to do with me?

I’m the guy who always disappears.

I’m the twin in her arms.


Our bones bedded in needs.

Our skin flakes off in the light.

Our uniform’s motley, our eyes are blue.


We’re equally unusual, you know.

We’re both as constrained as sustained.

We’re sat on the same lap.


Our ears are small in the field.

Our teeth are straight in line.

Our nails are cold, our flesh is lukewarm.


A lamp bends over the table

and leaves her standing.

The silent woman at table divides

what is ours from what is language’s.