November
some arguably unserious autumn takes… i missed writing
studio — I miss long nights in London
writing on the back of the window, the things we are
going to do, come!
another side, some
morning… lying on ceiling, give anything, lie snooze, just stop
tell me when the kettle’s up, or the rain,
and my toes’ll perk up from the
covers, like fresh rolls, cinnamon
only wildly overgrown, by hours, Monday was
a bad idea, but Tuesday never
better
a stack of postcards I never sent
I carry the steaming mugs up
the stairs, and
button soft sugar kisses, the
sprinkles, sprinkles, melting at my lips
like the thing I can’t have, thud,
but I’ll make the flowers
white weeds from another bloom,
peel the soiled snoring bud
out of the box, the thing I kept,
to breathe in bright, like fresh water, out the new rose
dead, this baby’s eyes shut tight, she smells like
early spring, like leaves, hardly green, but falling,
I can’t make her anymore, in the fields,
I can’t find her in the fountain
her shadow’s in mist, given away, though I thought her better,
all white, kept, all brown, but now I only
bed the sun, and cradle the nights,
all the moons becoming todays, turning,
grip the silver pearl circling sea grey, and
curl down, damp, the feeling you’re missing what’s really nothing
crawling back into your shell, all white,
deepen my skin into the little world
too quiet, to noise outside, hollering,
on and on, to smile and leave behind the night,
her dark hair’s so full, her
whispers hollow
whir paralysis
away it goes, nowhere, really?
Let’s go round, round, like a ring,
wound, something nearly exciting,
almost your fingers pedalling
promise, like the evening’s blanket under your feet, softly,
sleeping like a child,
this breeze you watch, sitting
until the cardboard boxes stand,
and it’s this, how you live your life out of paper folded
kneaded grease, and the fabric,
the fabric, hanging by threads,
loped along your bones, rising, only to sit, small,
scared to tumble down the slide, straight down your back
to hold your hand, dry,
don’t fall
stand again
crumpled, but dry, but whole again,
like your old t-shirt, or last year’s headlines, ironed,
and tangled, running through the morning grass
seeping dew
