by Jo Flynn

This morning, I woke from a dream
without really waking.
I dreamt you came home
came rolling into my
wonder and double duvets
gushing that it took everything in you
not to tell me.
Your face was thirsty
from the sun
and there was sand in your hair,
behind your ears, pouring
from your fingertips.
I fascinated myself
with the flecks in your irises
and coaxed the hair on your legs
like a talisman
rhythmically reminding myself
of your actuality.
I opened my eyes,
and opened my eyes again.


Jo Flynn | @flynx | www.flynx.co.uk
Winner of the Roy Fisher Prize for poetry in 2014, Jo is a Mancunian confessional poet just trying to make sense of the world with the right words.


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