The little dictionary lies open at A for Apple
where it all begins. I want to turn
the pages, but the vitrine is a border crossing;
my ageing face, stamped on its glass
and my papers way out of date.
Moths have been at work along the faded pink
of a rabbit’s ear. It’s swiveled to catch lost sounds.
A big, red button reads: PRESS ME. So I do,
and the little train clatters along N-gauge tracks –
disappears into the papier-mâché tunnel.
A long heart-skip, before it emerges still guarding
its secret: the dark curved space,
a pin prick of light dilating like an amazed pupil
at the approaching world.
