Morning

November 18, 2006

Slipping in
and out of sleep
like a swing in slow motion-
sometimes speeded up.

My throat is scratchy
like a bout of toncilitis;
the slates of the roof of the
back of my mouth,

irritated: call this a
reconstruction job
you’re having a laugh.

The kitchen

is a box of light
Everything in technicolour
shining surfaces,
Preraphalite.

Here is a tableau of
small working parts,
seen through a door, parted by a
rolling shroud of curtain.

The outside world is a
clean square, only slightly smudged.
Pale blue
with aerials traced in

right angles. The leaves are black
spiked dots of cut up paper,
tremble flickered in
air too cold to breathe.

Watch them flash in
epileptic grief.
How long to watch till
one falls down. How long to

skeleton key?

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One Response to “Morning”

  1. Of course, any poem can be interpreted in a million ways … I saw this as opening a door to a new day (perhaps with a dollop of resistance!) Quite intriguing! much peace, JP

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