The sky tonight's a disowned chore of blue
and it hangs over my bed in irrational snatches. Like
the second-last paragraph of a conspiracy novel, printed
as a footnote to the foreword, for no good
reason.
Sometimes it scurries across the wood trails of my shallowriver gaze,
other times it just
hangs in there, looking down at me like
I'm supposed to put a finger on it's awkwardness, number
it with my favourite digit. Why
should I have a favourite digit? I think
I am fond of words. Some days
words are
kids in love, some days
they are lonely planets traipsing
around a hungover wall clock. Words are like
ancient mineral rocks on the far side
of the moon, waiting an eternity per
second, imagining a small
'hello'
over and over in their heads before
they explode
over their ocean of
allacrossness. Words are
patience.
May be it should have
been words up there in that
tumbling sky, instead of dead
stars - to calm the nerves, fill
up the spaces
and all the rest. Imagine
lying on your back, looking up
to spot a blinking
Hello, find a tilted
You ,
shining in calm
awareness.
And you could
trace your fingers across
it all to join them up, any
constellation you like, any
day.
That'd be something.
But the sky tonight's a disowned chore of blue.
I think I'll sweep it up now, before
it pukes paper moons and other
Jane Doe planets in the
name of
getting noticed.
Feeling pretty is a war-time fairytale.
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