lost in Mahler peach marmalade on toast
smile lighting this end of tunnel eyes.
Father's bitter coffee
grounds for divorce his daily quip
on the paper tablecloth.
Once upon a time
he wrote on pristine A4
but we would filch fold launch his words
into the surrounding Bermuda triangles
now he writes on paper tablecloths
of the poem and the paper plane
a perfect marriage of art and science
capable of unpowered flight.
And how as a child
copying copperplate Keats nightingale
launch it from Hampstead Heath
watch it rising on its innate thermal...
Thomas Stearns Eliot
would fold his own complicated words
send them skyward
to lodge behind radiators, sofas and atop high wardrobes
that furnished his horizon.
Unreadable from here.