Inside my meandering mask of surety,
Iím quivering at the uncut nails
As fog descends on lustrous April nights
Outside my bedroom window.
It is someoneís daughterís room;
A package I am attempting lackadaisically to refill
With my polystyrene overflowing words.
Itís slow, itís steady
In thirteen thousand nerves.
Itís a recipe; it isnít tasteful, perhaps,
But like sure cement on bricks, we grip the walls.
Eye contact as the humid breaths of spring
Leave soft bathing waters on transparent windows
Shielded only by the ragged remainders of an innocent child.
I held, like a buttercup, a ship in a bottle
Those types you get on cruises
But I lost it like the slinking thoughts that come to mind.
Every definition has a flipside,
Has a twist, a snaking contortion in sweaty hand-covered voices.
Too much reflection brings with it the ricochets
Of substantiality fading into a knowledgeable glitter;
Laid bare and cracked through rustling wrappers,
You gaze to see this no longer affects your statutory rights.
Iím hoping this is everything I repeat
Using adjectives that belong in that purple suitcase
You know the one, with key-rings.
Weíre sliding now, weíre on the way to half-asleep.
I wish I could portray the images of my fatherís house
Or an articulated feeling of a train
Pulling away from a proverbial station.
Without requiring a metaphor or analysing the tone of your voice,
Iíd like to offer myself in this perpetual history.
Iím counting down reactions as I study
The easiest subject in the world:
Discover, commit and merge.
Covering our buried mounds of earth,
Weíll resume this futile digging when your strength has returned
Your syrupy complexion writhing in my weary eyes
As nothingís lost.
In the silence of a room gone cold,
These words are left unspoken and grow old.