The smell of domesticated work.
I deny my own pride in the soft clean floor,
pretending the dirt destruction is not uplifting.
A panic, a hunting, the insect squirrel
shelters in the something’s wrong with this tree
from the model–T predator searching below.
The uneven clump standing above the moor.
I wish I had an indoor mower;
was I ripped off at the furniture shop?
A forgotten moment
from last year’s production line
one of fifty thousand on July 23rd.
How I hate the sound of brushing
causing more clenched teeth than Meg Richardson,
my ribs scarred by a thousand steel scripts.
Marmalade’s second home.
“A week off from the jarring rat race,
a chance to relax, to spread myself out,
‘a happy holiday in the sun’*”.
The clump ignores our little world
as the stalking cat ignores the passing car.
It maps the course of wild neutrinos,
a whiff of smoke escaping from a window.