Prawn-sized, blue-foiled, runaway mare.
The students of ice and virus went
breathless as the blocks moved back into
place, a propeller spinning too close for
comfort. Tea, with black bread and tears.
Mare, snorting and away. Foil,
combed for clues while motors hummed.
The joke hinged on things seen but never
commented on. Tone was the carry-all,
a daring lisp or tremolo, nothing too giveaway.
Dim and shrill. And fascinated with
one’s own noises, fork on tin, boots
on carpet, fist on a fat gray ream
of possible treason.