Wednesday, 6 July 2011

In proper bone china.

She has spent too long on her own again,

Too many months in a box she kept,

And the real box of the room is foregrounded

Only by the blinking horizontal line that burns through

Peripheral vision like a star does through the galaxy.

Always blazing and burning and shining but never quite

-well its not like a lightbulb is it-

You can’t grasp at it.

It doesn’t bring anything like a cup of tea to help,

Ease itself along the passages but maybe

A biscuit is in order, or a sandwich?

There’s no bread, so she eats a lump of cheese she broke off with her hands,

Stuffs it in her face as far as it will go.

Which isn’t far. That space is already occupied.

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