Caleb Parkin | Joy’s Kitchen

The milk-bottle tops

have become a golden pyramid;

a tomb before time.


Someone must be able to use this stuff.


The newspapers

the death of each day

growing up the walls.


Someone must be able to use this.


The pieces of string

twice the distance from

the middle to the end:

still not long enough.


Someone must be able to.


The cutlery which related

to no other, in a drawer

which would not shut.


Someone must.


The dolls’ heads in shoe boxes and

their tooth-paste tube lid lamps and

object upon object upon


buoying-up and pressing-down,

a grandmother dwarfed by

the scale of her own refusal

to shrink to one thing, but

who shrunk nonetheless.





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