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.