a poem is a sandwich

no one sees
how words
when pressed
by lips and teeth
and tongues
form shapes
like napes
of necks and
curled up cheques

sell your poem
to a friend
and buy a sandwich

the words
are gone now
in a flourish
to nourish
the heart
via the stomach

exercising the paralysed bits

paralympians
are aware
of their paralysed bits
but ignore them

what’s the point
of strengthening what
you cannot use?

maybe you feel happier
and healthier
maybe someday
someone finds a cure
a way to reconnect
inside you
what has been severed

which parts of me
do i leave inactive?
could they be
my paralysed bits?

lovers (a painting by Charles Blackman)

eyes
downturned
hands
held loosely
with flowers
behind her back
darkness
between them

eyes
almost closed
hand
raised lightly
against her arm
light
falls on her cheek