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Unsure of Cell or Shore: Version 2
We made our padded rooms,
Trampoline parks for a time,
For bouncing off the walls,
As we crash into the side.
Those clouds our leather breakers,
Eroding rolling rows,
Salty tongues to a gobstopper ball,
Cancelling the storm.
Strapped into a jacket,
A hopping biped fowl,
From pterosaur to Christmas baste
Skin golden crisped to taste.
Thrown off the pier a flip,
Does blind the inner ear,
To up or down, or sand or air,
Our skull: the barycentre sphere.
Clouds overhang again,
Dangled down on unseen strings
A sea of puppets bobbing,
On white lip crests of sea.
Thrown like a bottled ship,
Lab foetus in a jar,
My pickled skin, burned crisp like chicharrón,
A whole communion of my form.
Copyright ©
Alice Reynolds
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