The 2017 WH prize mug I’m looking forward to reading your stories each day, and seeing which ones come to the fore early on, and if they...
Tuesday, March 04, 2014
My forehead is a touch screen.
I take the edge and thumb-swipe time
forward, while regrets blur into pain.
One swipe and 30 seconds die
not with a bang but with a ping
on the microwave.
I have heard the burst of bombs
left by terrorist platelets,
sound travelling from the crater of a synapse
banging anvils onto hammers in my ear,
projecting dragons out through closed eyes,
and counted myself lucky
In spring an old man's fancy
likely turns to thoughts of wonder.
I open the blinds to let sunlight
blind me and send its flying vitamins
to anaesthetise lesions, and waken
hibernating hope cells with a splash
like witch hazel.
Shell is too strong a word
for this bubble, reflecting day's glare.
When you've floated around the sun
a few times, landed somewhere -
called it home and held in
the breath you were given. I wish
I had a shell.