Cold Flan For Curiosity
I watched the broom ignore me ignoring it,
Sick buttery light clawed through the fabric vines,
Thick lunges of light fell in pools around the table.
Me an ireful being doing nothing much at all,
Indium eyes rueful and shattered like pottery,
The winter sun burns my heart out.
Soft and pulpy clock chimes more identical than before,
I hear mail through the door fluttering like bells,
I sip tepid coffee and swallow in the dire morning.
The air be miscible with misery and other mornings,
A sallow visionary hand unfolds in rasping vapours,
Pronouncing in theatre a dance to these clumsy words.