On Foaming Rust
In the rust drain,
She sweeps memories,
Revolting white froth,
Effervescent with fast time
and alkaline bruises
too slow to catch up.
On rustic terracotta,
She walks with pricked feet,
That foam, it recurs in tides
and spreads all over
like spilt milk on spoilt food.
And she shoves her bruises,
The nostalgic nightmares
through the drain,
She’ll cleanse her rustic terracotta
But she doesn’t know,
The foam will come again.
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