After a line by Veronica Forrest-Thomson


Slight kitchen views from white sheets

—warmth of breath and skin— 
there are tile shapes in the lino,

just enough window sun 
to mistake for a lit globe, a yellowing

of day taking shape across the floor. 
But in the first room—blinds drawn,

edges shaping shadows, tidally,

across the curling spines 
of books, colours muted,

pages loose and stacked at random—

there is a slowness, a taking

of time, each said word
folded close by ampersand; the morning’s

pairing of shapes, doubled and joined:
‘is’ & ‘ought’
           eyes & fingers,

                       love & breakfast
                       (as omelette or glazed pastry.)
Later comes the day’s grit:

a sink full of eggshell & coffee dreg
—an expression caught in passing

by the glass, ‘the blank world…’—
A blueness of sky to signal cloudless,

and little much else.