Country casual egg cups

Country casual egg cups

We bunch up against the windbreak
like country casual egg cups.

You take photos of the long limbed children,
pick gelatin off the pork pie as if it's a disease.

I watch a boy in a wetsuit
knee wade in with crutches

while you make a nine mooned mordor
guarded by the ghost of a galiferous crab.

I imagine refugees arriving,
lined up against the rocks like bunting flags.

You throw a flint stone at a sand drawn map of England
and decide where we should next go.