Drowse. Listen. A quick crackling static pours:
fine sand grains, dry and fierce - a sharp white quartz
through necks and throats of glass - through time the morphs
and glyphs at the mind's draining. Depths above
the gravelled channels churn. You tune and sift
the brilliant night-blown shards and mounding whorls
till you imagine whispers in the grits.
Who speaks from where? Watch voices come like moles
in the air tunnels - thick breath - struggling through
a damp earth smell, the fresh wet touch of dew
paws on your flesh and hair - subconscious crew...
The background gathers up and covers you.

Blue vases wait in pools of walnut, cool
on lilies cut from lace, where scents of rose
and beeswax mingle, near the coiling spool
of silver minutes, cased in polished glass.
The mother-daughter gift of chatter weaves
its needled fingers in and out of news
while sunshine splashes green through cedar trees
to patter past like wrens on floors and shoes.

When brilliant chisels streak down light-washed walls
then trace the diamond brooch on women's breath.
When oval owls appear on picture rails
pursue the mirror's shy reflected self
unclench each fist-like bud of nerves, and taste
the scent of light soaked rooms, where childhood waits.