Tuesday, January 8, 2013


All sorts,
dregs flushed into air,
the stare of stares
that scatters and absorbs.
All sorts, choose some,
pens, keys, socks…socks,
often one of the pair goes first
leaving the other inert,
another puzzle at hand
in the meaningless universe.
And forks, knives, napkins, cups,
the saucers stay a little longer
in questioning rotundity.
And books and magazines and papers,
papers are the quickest
because they can find chinks
in the myriads of folds of the world
and vanish in a swish.
All sorts,
dot after dot.
And the mind, the mind.
Frayed wires in a jumble
trying, in their decline,
to arrange a sense
but giving up sooner or later,
gazing only at the boat
in the current’s arabesques,
oars abandoned.
We often leave
before leaving,
when we stop caring
about keys
and close ourselves
in or out.
Or get flushed and lost in words
as in echoes of swords
until we forget both them and us.
We just might utter a truth,
or so we reckon,
some seconds before,
in a lion’s roar.
Dot after dot.
How wide the sky.


Dave King said...

My first experience of taking football with special needs youngsters (7 -12). At the beginning of term I would issue each boy with a pair of fitting boots. When I'd come to collect them in at the end of term there would always be more right feet than left - or vice versa. I never did discover how they did it.

Crafty Green Poet said...

excellent and so true...