Just an odd little one that’s been rolling around my head since the cafe last night, gathering some substance. I don’t believe what I thought would stick is what ended up in here, but that’s how these things work. Pretty much the way I was feeling in the evening, carried through into today. I’m not sure what a lot of it means; will have to step back and come have a look later on.
An aphid, one peridot pixel,
is emigrating across my knuckle on her way
from the window to the teapot. I will believe
in good omens.
Lately, it’s been impossible
to find anything calm. Water does not
sit idly in the cup; words clothe themselves
with unwanted meanings. Last night,
I scrubbed my hands until the skin went white
and cracked into desert islands
rather than give myself away.
There isn’t much I ask for:
kinship with the things that crawl,
half-light and pleasant music, something warm
that I can hold while it grows cool. I don’t miss
anything except the simple pleasures;
but I hope for the onion-skinned ones,
so complicated and so easily torn.
Bring me a lantern to see with,
a bell to speak with. Bring me the night
brimming between sealed fingers,
and drip it into my wounds.
That will be restoration and
the beginning of faith. And I will be the mirror
holding the world still. A six-legged scrap
of pine pollen gathers
intention from the isthmus of my thumb,
carries it like a charm from one place
to another. Sometimes we have to
Not everything we touch will turn
to ashes: I keep trying to cling to everything