Long last the memory

Long last the memory.

I am returned
To the place where my self
Comes and goes

That self which knows
Only the journeys
Memories as sleights of hand

The physical being
A carapace
Lost in space

I am solid here
Amongst the debris
That roots and puts a roof on me

My flesh and blood
The beating tic
I represent

Alone as always
In familiarity
Asking forever to be known

Short day

Short day

 

The leaves curl

Their lips around the lisp of decay

Mottled browns and yellows in fade

Pressed like newsprint into the path

And twisted into submissive shapes

By the soles of walkers

Their pets far ahead, noses in fragrance

Raking and sniffing for ripeness

A place to pee, scratch and move-on

 

 

Light so grey and low

It will not go dull but turn fast to night

Receiving street lights and car beams

Revealing blurred ambient figures

Distortions. Pallid offerings that roam

On some apparent business

Though in truth it is only early

So that more of the day

Could be precious