Thirteen waves: xiii.



I should be out the porthole,
surfing violet mohawks,
bursting the orange horizon.
But in this Fokker Friendship
we are dozing
over the disc of dusk towards
the cardboard box
you say is my home too
for a while
if I like.
(One eye juicing the sunset.
One eye tasselling
wigs of pingao.)

Poem and reading by Rachel McAlpine CC BY 2.0, photo by Phil Capper CC BY 2.0