Wednesday, 16 March 2005

laureate and hardy


Back To Bed

a beginning, amongst twelves and ones
paracetamol hunger after noon,
I have got myself enraged,
forced to pay for bread with coppers
and sit in my sulking room
where, in a moment’s time,
I shall upset a mug of tea
into the table’s grain
at which point I shall question
the sort of day
it will turn out to be.


the balding, red man in the fleece knows not his significance,
ignorant heavy-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose
as he stoops to shovel paper adverts through my letter-box
nothing means nothing to him, nothing just is him
but he is not him to me, the brass clattering of his actions
are a synchronicity, a timing and a disturbance
and as I race to the window, we both feel a moment
of juncture and separation because our eyes meet
and we have been caught.

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