The leaves are simmering, Foaming at the lip, Boiling over. They froth like the wreckage of tide on sand, But are soft like flour through a sieve. My hand’s ear touches the soft outline Of bowl, made in flour on the table, The missed eclipse, the circle of drift.
My roof is cast afloat And my bed sent tumbling Into the sea. My dreams are of oars, sails pillowing like puff pastry Or the starched caps of sisters on the ward. Punched straight full of air, Stiff with nothing.
My duvet is a bright soufflé Of billow and blust and My breath is heavy and slow.
My hand’s ear hears the white eclipse Of spilt salt, An arc of superstition From shoulder to floor.