underfoot

The citrus on my retina, shining up

the curtain-less room. If we spoke,

I would say to you: impossible.

We sing slowly, however. Light all around.

Sometimes the day is a friend forever.

Organs winding themselves near the

smell of vegetables. You pay for

small bags of stones, or medium ones.

Take your watch, and speak with strangers.

A grinning man crunches bottles underfoot.

Above the city, the sky’s a dessert.

This was the kind of day

you write home about, and I

wonder about my mum sometimes.

But then, I could never make her safe.

The small mirror rises. And

inside a lift shaft, everything

goes too slow for patience. ‘The prince’

is the name for annoying mythology.

Large hands. Large and beautiful knuckles.

In the red grains, I mistook it for cinnamon.

Three women spend an evening walking.

Sitting, talking among avenues lined with vans.

Beneath their clothing, it was engineered, she said.

The train was a yellow tin. We, its standing fishies.

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