The Airing Cupboard

inside,
softest cushioned snow
snowflakes and stars smother my lashes
unexpected storm fronts rage
like the weather of sagas

inside
bottomless lagoons
perfect-sided sinkholes
bored into the Jurassic of my soul,
monsters from the midnight zone
swell like tides of plankton

inside
coiled in coppery darkness, against
the womb-heat of the hot-water tank,
summer, nineteen-seventy-three
sprawled outside in Technicolor,
sun-bleached and over-exposed

inside
pale torchlight, a tortoiseshell
frantic in the hot cage of my fingers,
whispers booming on the well of the stairs
eager for bones to anchor
their lost souls

Patrik Gryst

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