Inside the hotel room, there is blue air like bright burning, then holes. I allow the sheet to fall over me. I flip the channels. I do not call Room Service, but think about it incessantly.
When you awake, my lips are salt.
After all this time, I cannot count firewords, and you do not concern yourself with logophilia. Later, I repeatedly insist as if time rushes ahead, and stops all at once.
Your body is a maze that only makes sense when seen from above. The television hearts me.
In pagan times, there was so much knowledge that it could not be contained by scratches in stone.
You put yours inside the box of text.
The world is white, whiter.
SK Grout grew up in Aotearoa/New Zealand, has lived in Germany and now splits her time as best she can between London and Auckland. She is the author of the micro chapbook “to be female is to be interrogated” (2018, the poetry annals). She holds a post-graduate degree in creative writing from City, University of London and is a Feedback Editor for Tinderbox Poetry. Her work also appears in Crannóg, Landfall, Rising Phoenix Press, Banshee Lit, Parentheses Journal, Barren Magazine and elsewhere. More information here: https://skgroutpoetry.wixsite.com/poetry