Time In a Vacuum

my bed

I was a child in the morning
with spring air shifting
in waves through windows
over the bed,
across the sheets,
and between toes which I spread
to see the sun red
through the webbing between them.
An ironed pillowcase my mother's touch,
the pillow loud against my ear,
the salad scent of mown grass
sprang from a neighbour's lawn
to tell me to eat breakfast,
and that moment became a vacuum tube,
bottled itself into a pocket of my brain,
where we find ourselves now,
looking.