Unforgivable that anything should have actually changed, and while I avoided that room, the attempts at closure or a new history, a dwelling within to remind of a dwelling without, I still focussed on loss and mentioned it slowly in conversations, raising distance as an obligation. From road to bridge the news spread and then the papers held it in their arms, cradling baby, and offered it to the people who took it in but knew nothing of its origins nor the warm space that it left, that baby.
Unlikely that anything would be formed in these challenging circumstances, the structure already to much to maintain and the signs are lighting themselves tonight. But the sun hasn’t set yet and while the conversations wait, the people stand and gather and somethings are mentioned, nothings are mentioned, all things are mentioned, crowding round the tables in the city’s amber, a perfect future running jagged along the top of the back wall.
Unnerving that anything might actually happen, that a moment’s grace might be allowed before the danger arises apparent, almost fuelled by stories, the stories which angle and bevel through the lawn, cutting the grass above their heads before pushing through the topsoil and examining the routines and maleficents, and in these circumstances I wait for my words to mean nothing, pared down as they are by a lack of context, a discreet humbling which renders my outpourings little more than an exercise in hand-eye co-ordination.