Rush

Save me from
Surface-skimming.
Too blinded and coughing from
Sea spray of the everyday to take a deep breath and see
The coral kingdoms just below my fingertips.
Swiftness is our modus operandi
And stopping seen as something gone awry.
Our minds remain mewling things
Looking for the light through not-yet-opened eyes.

Drape me in silence.
The back of the cupboard where the treacle is kept
In its sticky cylinder
Sleep me in there
Tiny and black
Glossed and lost.
Cat-curled.
Soundless.

 

 

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