Her French Toast

By | 1 December 2013

Amanda rented in Newcastle a submarine, green
that had clear domes to see the anemones
the stingrays, the clown fish.
She filled it with one long French toast scent
before submersible sank from air
to creak down bubble rushes. Then
holding sterling silver splade and porcelain blue plate
while dressed in slightly stretch black satin vionnet
she sat on single thin red-cushion square
inside her boat bow glass observatory
washed by sea glazed refractions
Amanda smelt fried egg-bread
tasted serrated sugar portions
explored, through deep aqua sunbeams
the predators glide
the sharp reef, the seaweed lines.

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