white is not no-colour, as we were told as children, but all-colour
—H.D.

I’m perched on a bench where my mother left me
in the forest of the old bank’s marble hall. I hear
the swish-swish of its revolving mouth, watch
how it eats and spits, eats, spits whole people,
sometimes the same person more than once;
I see how the open gob goes quiet before it
starts to swallow and regurgitate again—
empty swings to full, something
comes of nothing, until the
room starts turning too,
its pillars up and

where is she? where is she now?

trees sway
the liquid floor
swirls under my
dangling feet. I think
I will be sick. Then from
the undergrowth a rustle, from
the foliage a parrot flash—my blank
panic pixelates, resolves into its coloured
parts: a slash of lipstick, crimson nails, blue
scarf, yellow hair, the dull maroon of leatherette.
My brightest reddest shoes dancing the leafy path.