Like that dream of onions
big as lanterns – hives
the hand could lightly lift to test the weight
and take a bite from, like melon.
You ate the glassy flesh.
It was a windy day. The gusts knocked
the door against the frame, the stock reducing on the hob
shook and tinkled, the day echoed like a churn.
Letters fell through the slot.
The dog wants walking. I’m on my third coffee –
all half drunk, so it’s okay.
My right eyeball burns behind reading glasses.