Like the time I was five, pouring litre-milks into a patch of soil, mixing up a grey slough with a wooden spoon. Then I’d cracked in two eggs, and the pearling liquid pools sunk into the mud like sick eyes. I’d lain flat and imagined looking back up from the ground through runny yolks. By the end of the day I’d decided this was the view that God saw. Not lofty through clouds, but up at us all. Lidless and missing nothing.
I slide out of bed so my head’s on the floor, kick out like a Deity from the skirting board. From here the lower wall’s scuffed in darts. I thumb-nail more ridges to the shallow flock, its seventies blowsy roses look fleshy. I grab an edge and tug. Under are different flowers. Symmetric and orange.
I slide palm-down into the kitchen, see dried chips and drips of green. As I move around the floor bits of old food fill up my hair like a cosmos, marmalade stickies my ears, yesterday's toast lies broken around me like meteorites.
Under the table I can see scratches gathered at edges, like a nervous kid’s been counting off time, waiting for when no-one's looking.
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