Do you know what I am thinking?
No, of course, how ridiculous, how…
Foolish is me, is your voice in my head
Counting down days but lost in my ears
The path turns through cities and nighttimes and days
And footsteps echo whenever I’m alone and trying to sleep.
Your faces all untainted and beyond the simple touch
Of skin or features or my sight through the rain and the sun.
Don’t let me think of green hills and leaves
Or listen to some wrapped up clean sonata
And tell me we can sit in cafes with coffees
And laugh and tell our little histories or jokes
One foot over another and the ground is grey
With the rain, swollen still, adrift in leaf mould,
Centuries have past and some kernelled skull
Must have harboured something like this weight
I’m tangled in clichés,
Chasing me down corridors
With bony white fingers,
Axes, knives, arrows and bows,
What is this wide whole rounded darkness?
Massive forces churning down around gridlines,
Einsteins and seconds and higgs-bosuns, electrons,
The blood on the carpet and the taste of cherries.
Sweet-seeming sunlight filtering in
Over me and echoing of some things
I would rather not have myself see.
My walks with you in retrospective,
I frightened myself with daytime and
Evening TV. As expected your hand in
Mine, walking blurred with drink, tipping
On a brimmed lense to a saline puddle.
You lie in a state of change, body of wax and flesh
Carved smooth inside your archaic dress as once
You slept, arriving home late through the rain, so
Now never again. Footstep. Footstep. Footstep.
Can’t say it makes sense. Light bars die, interrupt
My reading square white pages in an effort to look
Like the silent leather jacket in the corner and
The shoes that read faces in their laces. I argue