rolling ribboned smoke spits sound
a breath of thunder calls from the mouth of morning
I hear angels who learned to shriek and not to sing
every day;
I lean over their song
I step from beat to beat and sway through repetition and
count seconds mirrored between days – one, two, three – cold turns to boil on my command –
four, five, six – I line up measured instants just to knock them down like pins
and level breaths until they flatten
I sip the screech of kettle steam – pour – and wonder if the joy is just caffeine or if the pattern
– push button, count, every cup a clockwork movement – gives me a daily touch of flavour on
my tongue
a taste; a tiny sample;
of the feeling of control