Runcible Spoon

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Stirring clouds of brown sugar into the

whirlpool of your coffee cup, you clink

against the sides, slowing as it rises

up towards the rim, spilling nothing,

while I carelessly ladle stew from a

bubbling pan into those patient dishes,

sharing out unequally the choicest

lumps of this and that, and sloshing

blush-red puddles all over the hob,

tell-tale speckles and shooting stars

Pollocked across the pristine splashback.

In no-one’s imagination do we match,

should we even be in the same drawer,

yet in the night I wake – just for a moment –

to feel the caps of your knees tucked in

behind the backs of mine, your arm draped

over me, and your feathered breath at the

doorway to my hearing, before sleep

takes me, softly, back down into itself again.