Bonny Cassidy, ‘Serrata’
The hour, I can’t tell.
Not yet blueing: but open and clean cut,
when matter twists
then turns again.
Breathe grip, breathing gripping under dark, serrata
shadows the fleshcoloured wall
trunks 200 per cent, leaves the size of nebulae,
(sprayed black), the scale so close
to the eye they might be motes. So close I doubt myself
squared in the bathroom window, telling.