Thursday, 16 February 2012

You start to notice

You start to notice

You start to notice the puddles of water
on the bathroom floor look like
figures with outstretched arms
as if in triumph, or calling for help
it has run between the cracks in the tiles.

In the grain of wood you see faces
in the clouds cities with streets and gleaming towers
arches hanging
and you try to think about that.

You think about angels, growing old
and about boxes and boxes of unfilled notebooks,
bursting with never arrived ideas
page after page
of waiting and weakening white, while
the world screams and throbs around you.

You clear your throat and try to remember the names of the birds
and the plants, you realise
you have come to measure the year by them
and you try to think about that
you think maybe you have reached something.
The days are becoming warmer.
You imagine them all in a line.

You think about chasms, about
valleys of cloud between slate with water
running through their middle, water
finding its way over the small earth

creepy crawly, creeks make canyons.

That seems to be something at least.

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