I spent the day hiding in a woollen beanie.
It covered my head like cling film round leftover meat.
When I walked by my living room mirror
I caught a curl trying to escape
from my cranium tea cosy.
It looked like it didn’t know what it was doing
so I shoved it back undercover.
Two hours later the mirror told me
the curl had made its way out again.
I liked its spirit, so I shoved it back under again
to teach the rest of those hairs a thing or two.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Having a glass of water when I’m hungry
is one of my favourite things.
It works best when I’m hungover or ill.
Feeling the coolness trickle down
my dry body tube and splosh
at the base of my empty stomach
is like a penny full of wishes falling
through a well.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I saw a heart today.
It was terrifying and disgusting and beautiful.
It was a thousand years old and a million
years old and zero years old.
It was a sprint, a moment of panic, a house
full of people jumping from behind the sofa
at a surprise party. It was an earthquake,
popping candy, a strip of bubble wrap.
It lived inside layers of flesh I’ve never met
inside layers of flesh I always hoped to.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I left a glass of tap water out for so long
my warm desk made it look sparkling.
Window light bubbles floated still
like tiny tourists on spherical see-through lilos.
I moved it into the shade like a skinny beverage god
and felt bad as the H2O holiday makers dissolved
into a pint-sized Dead Sea.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

We put a lot of trust in things.
Clocks, lifts, locks on doors, expiry dates,
passing trains, drivers on motorways.
We trust textbooks and milk and chair legs
and bread and skyscraper foundations.
We trust electricity, the moon, the teeth of strangers,
spoons, our low self esteem, dogs, the green man.
Every day I trust my skin will continue
to hold all of my bits in, stop the rain
knocking against my bones, get me out of bed,
remind me when to step out of the sun.

© Carl Burkitt 2020