Glass Onion

Currently working on a new version of the site.

in the restaurant
fingers chat quietly
—the guide dog sleeps

a pause—
r e v o l v i n g   d o o r s
in the middle of a conversation

Don’t drag—
Pick your feet up—
Take your hands out of your coat—
the old man said to the old lady
at the top of a flight of stairs
at Barbican tube station
on Friday the Eighteenth of February
at four:fifty-five pm

resting in the tree
polythene
moon

All morning
a little fly
has been trapped
in my gravity.
I try to waft it
into outer space
with my hand.

we left so much space

between sentences

it was like talking

in a cloud

a sudden storm
she changes the bin liner
with a flash of lightning and a crack of thunder

entwined in branches—
dormant christmas lights
and a glance for stars

early morning
a fisherman
waiting for the bank to open

an overheard conversation: she just sits in the front room in the land of fairies

tugging my left ear
a strained cable
lets wind into my music

the day’s stress fades
diffused light
in fog

lying in bed
listening to a stream
of diverted traffic

sharing olives—
a silent tally
of stones