synaesthesia morning

By | 6 November 2026

With thanks to Sean West

taste sun’s warmth
of burning toast
on tips of fingers.
hear morning dew’s
reflective hum
on sliver of tongue.
I question you
on the hot knowing
of glow sticks,
to no response.

dawn whispers over
lake’s glossed rainbow:
Paddle Popped
like the gluey
bath bomb deep
of Jupiter’s freezing
layer cake, burning away
at my breathy vision.
I want to know with
all grazing certainty,
what your voice
taste like.

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