January 22, 2015 § Leave a comment

Today is taking its time,

which I appreciate.

Earlier, we were two white shirts drinking coffee,

You offering me part of your croissant, to which I shyly hope I said no thank you, not I’m fine.

It’s hard to understand that you are ill because you speak and smile so very lightly.

There, the pale notebook that is the gift of your sister, upon which your name sits in the bottom right hand corner. little gold letters, full of stars.

Pa on the telephone gave me words I hadn’t hoped for

and I was tired and said ‘happy’

walking over waterloo bridge on a bright, but not quite clear sky,

the near distance at midday almost silhouette, strange, beautiful.

To white sheets after pulling gently off the curtain from one end of the rail.

It has come out of the ceiling and been at angles for weeks,

so this afternoon my window stretches the whole wall unbroken and the white light one expanse.

whoever knew white were kind.

Kindness though is a thing I do not comprehend when accused of. It does not belong to me.

I rest and I tell the irishman visit,

and we say that drumming is not like writing,

doing it over the same might not help,

and I am not trying to get faster.


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