the tongue unfurls
a stone in the stream
around which swirls
the currents of dream
that carry the head
further than we tread
in the waking world
in the daedal whorl curled
waiting for an icarus moment
to lift up into momentum
if they don’t exist
we invent them
spoken
thrown
ripples spreading out
a glass of ice cold water
at the centre of a drought
you sat down on the chair
then the music stops
and you unwrap the present
and understand the future