A girl called Fish

I feel I am in the silence of a French film
Pens scratching, girls talking
Diegetic sound.

Am I destined to be ever the outsider looking in,
The eternal observer
Of ink and curls
Soft down of snow
against her nose.

Warm, cold
Freeze, melt
A day of winter chill
Soft flowers in the morning frost
Silver glasses and temperate cloth

The swimming, underwater grace
Of a girl beyond the grid of seasons and time
Lost to the enchantment of looping rhyme

An Anglo inclination
To words instead of works
That touch the mind but not the soul,
So scientific and cold.

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