I can’t remember when I wrote this, but it’s from around 1998.
Brick-red eggs stand in line
On grey crown cups.
Earthenware pots glare outwards.
Cardboard on cardboard.
Spoons lie icy.
Our faces distort
In the harsh light
Fighting through the cracked glass.
Mist turns to dust.
There we learn our grains and wheat
Mix our oats.
The smooth white liquid
Rattles in our throats.
That is strangely … sexual … or am I just weird 😦 It reminds me of some kind of secret assignation, or a love letter written in code
I believe it’s a still life set in Wordsworth’s pantry, though I may have been thinking about servants at the time. All my love letters are written in code. 🙂 Thank you for commenting and retweeting, Steve.