Time takes a breath, uses its sleeve to wipe your glasses clean
You never thought that you’d wear sunglasses indoors
That’s reserved for latent existentialists
And professional poker tournaments

One second, while your eyes adjust

You observe the pattern of the wallpaper
Seek resemblances in line and empty space
And could’ve sworn you saw the face of someone
Who didn’t care much for you staring at them that way

It’s the quiet of the washing up:
A saint appears in the dregs of your coffee cup
And like those people who insist
That they found Elvis in their packet of crisps
You think, ‘there’s something in that...’

To repair the fabric of the afternoon
You stitch the dust with threads of light

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