Only take away the very dead, mouldering
the air. Keep those that shiver cracker-dry,
their throats ceramic and petals pearl.
Let them loom more softly against the wall.
As everything in this room has gone brittle:
the pipes knuckle-crack equations, flakes trim
the skirting, butterflies fidget off mantles of dust.
In my mother’s room, there was a fox’s eye,
billowing and caramel, knotted in the wood.
To eclipse this scene, I will its gaze to me.
(from Instead of Stars)
Amy Key lives and works in London. Her pamphlet Instead of Stars is published by tall-lighthouse. You can follow Amy on twitter @msamykey.