The mystic melts into a cup of tea
like seeing Yoko Ono eating marmalade on toast.
The afternoon’s belly is exposed
beneath one hand holding a crossword
and crumbs tucked into a beard.
Our bones are held together
by mundane moments and extraordinary reality.
What would you like for Christmas?
I’m afraid my sack might not be big enough
to carry your hopes for the future,
but all I can do is try.

© Carl Burkitt 2021