Jul
20th
Mon
20th
Memory of a past breakfast, Monday 9.14am
The clock’s cut
tick - the
old knife through
frozen butter or
bent backed plastic
silvered spoon - stuck
mid fridged Nutella ‘ploof’.
Gone the smooth glide,
gone the dream-draped
silken fold of lain chocolate
gently upon the
blunt knife side.
The distant overspilling
cloud upon
the hill - a half slide,
as if suspended mid reach:
frosted milk drip
