About It
At first
there was a slight problem with bendy tape.
It might have been in metric. Or
a half-truth in inches.
I had
bought a satellite box, second-hand. I like to peer
into the mundane, like a ball,
surfing regional news
because:
it reminds me of hotels. Those crumbling
cliffs
near Cromer, the shifting lists of Munros, a postponement
(the gift
of seeping sewage) of a County Flower
Show.
I licked a stamp for old times’ sake and thought of islands shrinking
and a strange e-mail on metrics. Oh the eternal anonymity
of three-star rooms. There must have been a map once
of three-star rooms. There must have been a map once
that fit went a
voice on the street, climbing my peephole
window and so a camera panned from the back of my head
window and so a camera panned from the back of my head
and the clothes that didn’t quite, taking in the skies, the streets,
the farms, the trees, like a greedy sucking engine
the farms, the trees, like a greedy sucking engine
looping the continents. I saw huge calendars overthrown
like statuary; I saw a scarecrow taller than the moon.
like statuary; I saw a scarecrow taller than the moon.
And knew the size of it was somewhere, like a pavement,
or the story of the last thing you’ll ever see.
or the story of the last thing you’ll ever see.
David
Bircumshaw. © 2013
No comments:
Post a Comment