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The Sun in a Box

When I was younger I drafted a memory.
I drew a rectangle on a piece of card
and called it a computer. Happy hours
spent playing with framed nothing
imagining a game I had seen in the Argus catalogue,
only with me inserted into it
alongside the ghostcatcher, catching ghosts.
What would you need to construct spring?
The Japanese do indoor summer
at the indoor beach. Through the window
yesterday I saw a slow heron with a crow
holding on to its outstretched leg,
which now feels indispensable
as the cavity wall insulation
that has already saved enough on heating
for two weeks’ holiday this year.
The installation man’s Polish apprentice
pumped it into the wall
without checking for holes, and when the wall
wasn’t full after a good quarter of an hour
he opened the kitchen door
to find it bursting with
hot white foam. ‘Like the sun
in a box,’ he said. I told him
he should have posted it online
now those eagles chicks have fled
the shot.
After a week, a felt-tip crack
appeared on the screen
where I’d dropped it.