It seems I spend my life crouched in some cold kitchen with an upturned glass and a torn piece of card,
trying to capture time as though it could still thrive, contained in an elegant dome of my choosing.
Moments, shivering and rare, scuttle across the floor
wishing not to be trapped nor admired by those who do not realise
that these silver, suffocated things are ancient eagles
soaring over empty mountains,
wide wetlands that stretch in a shimmering curve
all the way to the sky.