she wafts an aroma
of reticent remorse
in a cloud
like buzzing gnats
circling
around greasy hair

the dark circles
beneath
her rheumy eyes
like the shadows
of monolithic
disinterest

yet something
about her lack
of care
self or for the world
around her
is alluring in a tepid way

she skirts around
the truth
of adroit relapse
with the easy moves
of a drunken walrus
on a sheet of ice

a muddled clarion call
heard through
burst eardrums
like a school of fish
funnelling through
an underwater crevice

how silly
everyone else must appear
in the timeshaft
of irregular chance
spent drumming fingertips
on the carapace of fate