You, my favourite soprano,
sizzling egg white,
caged bird with metal tongue,
reflecting the air of the room back to itself.
I turn you on in the morning
and you don’t stop,
spinning gold from the open window,
festooning my face with the curious fingers of unsure ghosts.
You are a crystal ball.
I can’t unpick all your voices
tempering Classic FM as I study.
When I’m done
you look at me like a mother
slowly wiping her hands on an apron,