Life under your eye
is bleary. Business
have no business
touching me,

In your view. All touching
gestures are suspect.
I’m not to trade
a laugh, or love
anybody else.

Winding through a city
afternoon, experience wears
a weary glaze. I must
wonder if it’s being
watched. Now, after

All you’ve drained, here
is something real: it’s not
my image hanging
in the lining
of your mind; it is a void.

Copyright © by Kevan Copeland