a bulge that does not yield so easily.
A bald curve to clasp both hands around, that
fills and feels as if it’s growing into
you, but it never shifts a molecule
further than its perfect calibrations,
encircled with supportive striations,
immune to my stubby stroke of silent
thanks. For not being anything other
than my apple-wax scented standard lamp.
Published in The Guardian 10/01/2008