Sharron Sours

"<i>Before the Atlantic/Pacific Desert, I used to travel to
England for the Holidays.</i>"
<b>I) London at Winter; 1993</b>
Oh, on yesterday a taxi cab stalled in the driveway. I was perched on the windowsill. Grabbing snow in my hand to watch it melt. My eyes are green to warmth. A wine bottle snoozing with the snow. So pale the face became gazing stoic from her backseat. Wine, all heat within my cold. Wine, lug me throughout my hell.
What's your name? I trip around and drown in crowds.
And the air was crisp while I passed through the trash of Camden. I pulled my coat airtight and walked towards the last garbage fire. It seems an hour ago I missed the last train for Hollyhead. Across the can of fire her face appeared barely alive.