_Fear & Swans Itch_ [ 2 ] by John Lowther

It could even say, would it

Could it, that having left it

Was all an accident in the choice of words.

Too fast and creating too much. There

Is a portrait like a leftover with foil and

Foil sweat underneath when it looks.

Ephemeral writing pad traced by lines

But not marked up, still just fool price.

The air is cold from the window

& on that other balcony a woman

In a hat and sunglasses. Chest fingers

From below the ribs tense in futile anticipation.

Proximity to the sighs made machinery sounds from it

& airplanes tick on the wall. Look I'm a swan

Shows its papers. Don't scratch yourself in security.

Gets under short shrift with a pointed object

Looks for an opening. Looks into the room

Where what is to be seen might be seen

Through modes of dress in the metaphor

A white jacket passes with tray of fantasy objects

But doesn't count on anything too many people

To watch everybody do. What differences accrue

To the pockets themselves when used

Only for certain ill-fitted if adequately accommodated

Itchless micro-crutches. Bottles of poison, hand grenades,

Such items should be stored in your checked luggage

& placed in a zip lock bag in case they explode.

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