The leaves are simmering,
Foaming at the lip,
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.
1 week ago