Things We Left Untouched

Here is where the side holds unwashed dishes, moulds expanding
slowly from the centres of unfinished mugs of coffee,
spreading white ambition to an edge
they cannot reach.

Here is where the parsley has got old,
shooting its spindly fingers into air,
yellowing.

Here is where the forest sleeping grumbles,
yawns its wide open mouth. Inside it
the leaves make tiny movements;
their sound is like slow
static, quietening.