I live in a world of half-formed things –
half-words, half-thoughts, half moons
digging into my calloused palms.
I’m full to the brim with glasses half empty
words that I toss back in my gut
to plumb the empty depths.
I see light filter in past a curtain of fish
the tub is clogged half full to my calves
I shake as I wash off the soap skin.
My lips taste like salt.
© christine DINGLEY 2011