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.