November Poems 09

Compulsive Reading

it drips off his fingers,
his palms are slick with it
and he almost drops the knife –
he leaves tell-tale trails;
drops, splashes;
teardrop shapes suggest direction of travel
away from the body
lying there in a pool of rich carmine red;
a liquid trail which snakes
over the old stone tiles of the kitchen
and down onto the rivers of type
describing the scene.
Page edges are already tainted
and it gathers at the corners,
coalescing into a single drop
falling to stain the duvet
as she turns another midnight page