A curling yellow effervescence from whose expulsion
I could swing; sweet, bitter rope.
Filmy wet space, early home space
Of the golden moon, cracked on enamel edge
A grassy thud. Crimson skin
Allays the hungry weakling months like baby birds.
Quiet night for this solipsist
And that new symphony, no-one hears but me.
Broken acid membrane shoots its
Shot of fruit, sticky fingers and nails clogged with white.
Flicked bristles on white, baby cotton
Like Pollock’s blood.
Somnolence beckons, but that silver rogue
Creeps along the wires of time
Film, crisp as glue
Crackles like mid-morning snowflake.
All these things placed. In savoury readiness,
For a transformative play; cloves, orange, brown sugar.
That sumptuous squeak, that strain; the spoon’s
Eager lip dips the scarlet jellied head.
And the recantation, a new blink. Some freedom,
Still so alien, distant foibles await their unwrap,
So it knells. A fresh breath, a pink sunrise
And there’s the birds in the garden.
Lois E. Linkens