an awful
The heads of the bush flowers
(I have no name for them)
crushed into themselves
like abandoned letters
on pale, sky paper, or letters
loved more and wrapped
around themselves like shawls,
like the cheese we ate in the north
like crêpe decorations, for trees,
for Christmas, for Easter, for
those days approached either
headily or
with dread.
To invest yourself with enough
to become yourself.
The face rounds together
in my view, in that soft and dated
light. Late. We were tired.
Were you too? Faces filled with
love not gone, demenagé only.
Smaller spaces allowing the smaller
sweeter parts of yourselves
into view.
I went home longing like a
person.
And today, air like a sheet.
Sun terribly wan and unapologetic.
I make piles of colour. I cut through
chemistries I could never replicate.
I respond in the flattest voice
I can muster up out of the
scrambled light of the
late, late divided morning,
out of feigned spates of
yin depletion. (Draw two columns
and colour one with red, one with
black pen, and cut the
top off one and that is your
lack of sleep). If my skin
were that paper, were that
shoddy rose of a place with no
water, only torrents of
spacespacespace, then
what of limbs and knot-theory?
I felt my heart. An awful
turned and curdled.
An awful to be and so:
luxuriate.
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