It was the day after the day

you nearly strangled

the dog pushing her

into the dirt

my eyes bulged

lips glued tight while

you shouted

keep up.
I don’t think it’s possible for skin

to get any whiter than mine was

kabuki white, though strictly

speaking shades of white are

actually neutral greys: death grey

the absence of colour.
Colour is a private sensation

anyway, like fear. 
In the now of what some might call

aftermath a pattern of broken molecules

appears in the gravel below

yesterday’s feet while I fall further

behind atoms vibrating harder in the

centre while the edges of my life spread
into this new space, charged by

discomfort

every day, it’s like a new start

into an old wound.