(Read from bottom to top) Airborne leaving reality behind. An airtight tin bird take-off, Its imagination encasing the mind. Down narrow aisles, stubbing shoe tips. To catch sentences that stumble and trip Pinching commas and penning full stops, These words are pressure that bubbles ears to a pop, Landing, skidding, taking off and heading back. Contact is the turn of tyres pushing track, The prolonged rumble of engine drums. This skin is lined with white noise, the hums, Spat out views of oceanic blurs of blue. These glasses are aeroplane window pips, Imogen Davies
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