hilariously, in the corner, affected by

the bone broth of disease and the wheeze

of my deep recessing core -

i spiced cider in tin cups for the day

a balm against

damp and sour stomach,

which, empty,

frosted like a country cake for a neighbour

after surgery

(her gallbladder out, in need of delivery)

i sat there, staring out the window,

wrapped in wool

brown and ecru

breathing in the ceylon wafting.

a rumbling chuckle,

and the smell of mould seeping

through the cracks of the sealant

ledded panes like oil slicks

against my mind,

the burning leaves in the fields.

smoking.

ⴲ.