Her cough is black as a London taxi
idling on the moon. A pickax
dulled from chopping tar.
A guitar raked by a hurricane.

    Don’t worry, keep talking.
    Don’t pay attention to that.

The charcoal stew comes to a boil.
The railing kicks in the throat.
The taxi’s ticking reeks of the sun.
The verbs go headless. The nouns.

    I feel fine. Thanks for calling!
    Talk to you soon!

Oh moon who never stalls
who falls away without a sound.