She thinks about light bulbs

Her long term memory is a bit of lead piping,
one that you can protractor along to the point, to the pivot of the day shifting from am to pm.

She dreams she swims underwater saying things,
but like looking down a smarties tube and seeing
the lawn and her little brother

in a photograph flying up out of the paddling pool
his feet half in air, his hair like static,
nothing much makes sense.

She knows there is logic, brain mathematics -
whole glotteral snooker balls of evening events
that hide themselves under brain duvets;

a table top scattered with toast crumbs,
a beach bag on the bonnet of a car,
a nose piercing next to a pit bull.

The rings on her fingers are planetary pulls,
people tell her where things live,
her pjamas under her pillow

her shopping in a basket
her heart not a pin brooch
her panic not what people appreciate.

Her boyfriend holds her hand in the cinema
and in the dark she swings her foot
Alton Towers across the carpet.

She thinks a lot about re-starting
about planting the things she likes
about choosing how to react

to strangers asking questions,
the am pm pivot
moving like its meant to.