Air pockets in the drink avoid detection
always rising past the eyes.
They can’t see each other under shattered
streetlights, and so they talk and move
in line with the sounds of their voices.
Around them there are others, further
separated from the rest, isolated in rooms
with broken glass on the floor, never quite
able to find the door.
The lights come on when they start to give
up. When their hiding in corners with
their lids stapled shut.
The windows in buildings all burst out at
once, and rain to the ground in un-aimed
jagged cuts.
Give up on the stillness at the heart of all
fear, and embrace all that happens to you
while you’re here.
Teleporting Typewriter 