Rainy back-street anywhere.
Doorbell rings in a house
where
nothing lives
mute pigment screams
froze in reverent silence.
Sharks hunt naked couples
upstairs where
the artist breathed a funnel-web
preserved
in glass. At this
velvet rope funeral march
the heroin clock drips
minutes like wax;
we soak in impressions of Bondi.
Outside the rain has stopped. Smoking
we
preserve time;
a backward glance
an artist’s life
a paperweight
the spider.
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