You don’t
want to feel
like a flea
on the tail
of a dog.
You don’t,
but that’s
how it
is.

You know not
what to feel -
fight or flee,
watch or fall -
through graspless fog
of you know not.
This is just
how it
is.

You mustn’t fear
now tumbling you -
now scared, of all
the shocks.
You mustn’t feel
this way you feel.
This is the way -
it is.

Back from your adventure.
There you are. Stretching on the sofa.
Did the rain bother you?
We wondered if you’d sheltered -
you’d never seen such weather.
And we worried and we hoped,
and we tried not to wonder.
Had you ventured very far?
“I’m hearing wails”
(said our neighbour)
“… can you hear them too?”
Oh, how we ran to put on shoes,
hoping it would be
you.

Don’t stitch the sail
if stitching torn-past shreds.
Thus spoke blunting patched cloth,
all to worrymen and woe.
No stitch the sail!
Wish now for wonder wind!
This spoke parchment wings
curled and needing crystal thread.
Don’t speak, don’t speak at all
is what the needle
said.

I’m
imagining
you again
November
bound and
cursing
fog.
Fumbling -
two hundred and six
slacking bones
lazy TV eyed
& morning blurred.
Sleepwalking
onto winter.
Am I right?
It’s cold,
you know.