THE ENEMY
              by Rhona Jordan

       Time is grey

  (I know it is)

  it hangs on with fingers

      of fog

 grinning at me over its shoulder

 with teeth of mist

 grey saliva stringing its open maw.

 Paranoid delusions;

 a belt around its fat grey belly.

 Time is grey

 (I've seen it, I know it is)

  it drips down my walls

 like slate congealed blood

 it slides over my uncut toenails

  and muffles the clicking of time

  as my feet hit the floor,

  it covers the space

  I've so meticulously worn thin

  from countless pacings.

       Time is grey

 (I know this as fact)

 it spills in my windows

  that I've forgotten to close

 and now i couldn't shut them if I tried

  and now my air is thick

  and my chest heaves

  and now my throat burns

  and now my eyes glow red

 And i have become

the lighttower

counting the rolls and tides

of the fog.

  Time is grey

 (I have accepted this)

 like the tendrils of my cigarette

 curling about my resigned face

 pulling me by the nose

 to rise and fall and rise again

 like the sun hidden by clouds

 and the moon outshined by the stars

  and i sit with my back

 to the open window

 as my shadow

 makes love to the

    ENEMY.