Weds 14th Oct ’20, 20:08.

The tongue is more akin to a lasso than a harpoon,
The way it winds itself round words.
Some tie knots in strings and cherry stems,
but this wet mouth-dwelling muscle
of mine
Weaves spells with slight and sinew.

In my nose, right now, is the smell of the dark over my primary school on the evening of the Hallowe’en party- it’s 1996 and I am in Year 2.
The taste of chain-hanging fluorescent strip lights in mottled, plastic casing
against the painted gloss-white beams of these Victorian bones will forever swell in my heart.
October is always an invocation- I sense this memory with tongue-tip pressed into the roof of my mouth; in some part, my spirit is there, perhaps my astral body, while my physical is here, bum sunk into butter-corn-golden fabric on the sofa. The spill happens; and, slowly, I come drifting back, reunited with the room.

1 thought on “Weds 14th Oct ’20, 20:08.”

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