Poetry

Spilt milk

I’ve seen many artists make portraits from coffee foam.

Shaping, contouring, scraping.

Letting the natural colour show underneath all that froth.

But what happens if the cup is spilt

and the liquid runs down the tablecloth

in a race to escape its confines?

Will it travel separately, several long tracks dispersing from everything they were before

yet leaving their mark on the cotton,

or will it pool together again to build up the image once more,

refined, certain, bold

to stand out

against the plain colour of its background?

Poetry

Sense

I take a day and pop it, pill-like, into my mouth.

At first, it’s sour. Scrunched-face sour.

Then the coating dissolves in the rain.

My tongues finds sugar in the flower petals,

bright flags ready to be folded with the first frosts.

Catching, strong coffee finds me. I don’t

like the taste of coffee. I don’t drink it.

I absorb the bold, smokey bean smell

and take energy just from that. Cut grass,

dew-wet, on walking  boots. Spikes

that fall to people, instead of people

falling to spikes. Tea to wash it down.