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.