Trinkets
By Paul Cameron Brown
My mind a buzz saw,
wood chips in decapitated thought
soil chilblained hands
II
Cleansing wood,
the keen smell of sawdust
- good, raw earth drenching
the nostril, clean odour
of nature like my brain,
a broomstick sweeping
the coffee pot speaking ...
bubbles massed in steam
inchoate in their pensive rivulets.