She, sitting at her kitchen table,
turns her hands upward to run her eyes
down the insides of her arms,
to see how the water will drain
when the clouds burst.
She lights a cigarette,
then sits in the snake-pit
listening to the slitherings around her,
till deafened, she flails at them
so they become smoke.
February; heavy drops knock on her window
and she, conscious of the thinness of glass,
of the thousand mile spate that's around her,
crosses to the hob to make tea,
to forget branches.