Blind Spot by Angus Sinclair

Whether or not the sky is like bath tiles
you scoop those soft boiled egg whites for crabmeat,
add too much salt. I crack your paperbacks’
spines, and the ice cubes in your wine glass creak.

I quietly skip the dull pages. Lunch
is cognac and canned trout. When the thunder
barrels in it’s lights out at the chalet
park. No mirrors are empty mirrors, or

all mirrors are empty mirrors you said,
picking the sand out of the sugar bowl.
That small perpetual noise is not a clock,
there’s more sand in the bed sheets and bath towels.

We are in and out, regular as breath.
The wasps’ nest over the door is a wreath.


Date: 2013

By: Angus Sinclair (19??- )


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