Coming in to land you used to pick out memories

poking through fog. nothing flies anymore

but electric bees chop months into neat tablets – now: easier to swallow!

the prime minister’s replaced my lightbulb

at long last, turning all reds into grey.

i see bars on white walls, blue skies

on houses i cannot visit.

i sit among words like a toddler

in dungarees, my motor skills (what a strange term)

too clumsy. a tower lies in chunks.

will anyone come if i bawl?

Oliver Cable