Friday, September 12, 2014


Material is never lost
it changes form, it takes 
the shape of other items
rocks, lights, sounds.
Opening a sock drawer is her relief
a can of worms, like rush
like rain swivels round her
insignificant realities:

- a stone from Wordsworth's garden
- a pinch of dirt from Shakespeare's house
- an old pen
- an old notebook, half full, half expecting to be touched
- a lighter and a smell of someone, a man, miles away

it is all the things she finds that refrain the tune of 
 her north, the time of sailing
the time of living, 
a time when she was removed from time
from the claws of all the steps she lost and still loses
every moment she glances back when she sees terror's red eye
like a bear on a hunt for sweetness.

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