cracked window looks at clouds, the mountain.
ledge, dead moths stretched out in
all their softness, stunned by light.
sewn curtains stir memories, indicate
a private place to weave and mend
here are the items, the installations,
here are the photographs i take
each day. here are the worries
placed in the cupboard, with notes,
for you to read.
after meeting my imaginary friend, attending an important
meeting, where there was no importance at all, i drove
to see the fish, and met the capybara.
who was surprised? its hair all needing drawing,
nose a blot, and the paw resting so. so
quiet it was, perhaps a sadness. it stood
alone, as did i.
the little capybara, there.
i took no photograph.
how there is no explaination there.
i will print one and place it wednesday.
reminded of basildon bond, now there is
an emblem, and quality paper. buy
blotting paper, to remember those times
of ink spreading. the clues wrote backwards
if we choose to hear them.
so we talked of death, i find i know nothing
very much. except this is the softest
when i listen to cowboy films
on the radio, carve the pumpkin,
breath held in case they scalp him.
every year the same, festival stress
reduced by wanton knowledge
that none of it matters, that I can acheive,
that maybe even, I could be worthy, the same
a surprise party after,
no one came,
no surprise, no one invited,
my clocks have not gone anywhere,
yet moved the hands as suggested.
tick happily round the house,
chiming out of time.
unlike most things in the house, they
need a flat surface.
radio and telephone are correct, other
things here are not.
three years to mend the mantleclock
clover round small trees.
high house begs to buy,
french bird house,
old linen stitched,
pinned , labelled
tied with string.
a domestic thing.
later at home.
owls perched outside.
our oak tree.
a new format, yesterday.
probably french panels,
just to difuse the light,
shatter the dark with bows
and dots. hung long
to travel more.
we pretend we are
in a magazine or ladies’
moths become a problem,
scattering the floor with
deadness, a fragility,
they will be placed in a box
sometime, a suitable
there is a collection now,
the falling days.
some things are inevitable, old tea
sips badly, after all the work is done.
stains the cup if left standing,
remember the hotel, 1964,
we used to scour them especially
round the handle, then the base.
we peeled the tomatoes, and waited
for our boyfriends on the high wall outside.
the whitehall hotel. bournemouth.
in a corner, she hopes
people will see her, talk to her.
do they understand the question,
can they spell her name?
she is not for sale really, though price
writing helps, no one will explain
the bandage, the blood and the book.
some of us love her and have ordered
another measuring stick.