My grasp weakens again on the merciless rope
that the crowd ahead of me is tethered to
Plodding to the incessant beat of time that deafens my sensitive ears.
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Even when my eyes are closed, I am haunted by yours.
I ache for sleep and yet you’re still awake, forever in my mind
Looking at me, staring and studying and searching for
Something.
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Scanlines on TVs used to pose a technical challenge
Editors would create imperfect images
Then corrected by the technical limitations of a TV
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The ghost of the stationmaster is sleeping rough
in the Winding House shell - its arched eyes gape,
the wind surges through him.
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Let me in
Clawing at the ribs,
those polished white candlesticks
pretty red tassels decorate.
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The train whistle rips his thoughts, taunting
the papermaker as he leaves the sleek, concrete
bunker by the sea where he makes his paper now.
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Here, nature is tame.
Fences and bushes and well-cut paths.
Nothing like the wild walks of home
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I will remain myself, myself always;
these restrictions will not inhabit me,
never in a month of Sundays.
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Behind the usual things
there is something else.
You and I, changed by chance,
late to our own party,
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I get older and learn to give away desire
Hand it off at the charity shop as unwanted junk but
Struggle to pick out something I could keep
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