Minima
Unspoke
We call boiling plasma, yellow and glutinous
Florence rolls her daisy
The nightengale machine roars its
Music box trivia
Ataturk reigns this pierced moment
Platitudes bleach forth with merriment
And flowered hands dance the shake bells
As sticks strike the hour
Ringing across these green and pleasant valleys
Stone church reaping the sunny warmth of early Autumn
Musty rubbermetal smell of old bicycle
Open universes collapsing infinitely on themselves
Wound ever tighter like a bobbin on an old Singer sewing machine
That scent of salty air sharp and ozonous
Bare dried groyne wood
There is nothing to cling to on this hot beach day
But random memories
Sieved through a brain like a light dusting of icing sugar
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