I dream of a world in which
I. I can turn cartwheels on loose sand,
in front of too-bright, postcard sunsets
II. I part rose petals,
gentle, searching, slow
III. Grass stains colour my clothes,
dot my skin, impossibly green,
the print of the crisp yard
IV. There are voices, there is sound,
there is open space
Take me there.
It seems that the more you know,
the less you know;
When only vines hold your bones together,
and all you have is dust,
Is there a bark-covered sparking neuron
here’s to an inspired new year.
Red-rimmed and paper-thin,
We all shiver in the cold bite.
It’s the last, it’s the end,
and I think to myself,
What have I done?
For twelve long years, what have I done?
I look at cool white plaster, at
chalk powder fine as first snow,
at watery smiles,
and I know that I have done—something—right.
Blue toes, blue spatters across white,
Spiderwebs through a canvas of
Inching towards a cliff’s edge,
Is this what liminal is?
Stare brave into the saxe
but don’t jump;
Wet wool has an ugly rasp.
Where do all the books go in this house?
I swear I swallow them up and don’t spit them out.
the dawn is still grey, a sickly tinge cocooning your world,
but within the dead muffling is a pinprick of bright blood–
Everything is out of order:
the coffee machine,
and the shower hisses reluctant at this early waking.
Fingers through the snarls in heavy, wet hair;
it is almost blade-sharp,
beneath the three days’ unwashed glaze,
and not even the spitting water can clean the ink spots from your fingers.
The towel wilts, smelling of yesterday,
chicken coop, not swan down,
and slickness spills you to your knees on the wet tiled floor.