THE GUN ON YOUR LIPS

We two indistinct moulds of time
stand tall in our pink venom You
read your watch and pull up your
chin You enquire about the missing
gleam on my unsettled lips I say your
face is nippier than mine You do not
debate that You drag me forth into
the thick silt of a devastated temple
The hisses of your mud fist knits
inside my mouth a fabric of anomaly
Our muddied bodies glisten in the ruins
The prayer bell demurred by chaos
slowly extinguishes into the colour
of a white sheet where we once began
ourselves.