Seven weeks is a long time
Just enough to pick up all the laundry off the floor
Seven weeks through the melted glass
Just enough to know what isn’t shifting into focus
Enough to walk with pen & pad
Or to run with something not quite close to romance
Green light on the town’s lines
Where the bricks are made from cinnamon and turmeric and Clove
And that house where the paths meet
And divide as they cross themselves like intersecting streets
And in the dark, in the closest thing to dark, I had just laid down to rest, and where:
I don’t know, in the places where the corners should’ve met,
where the dust won’t collect now
Eight weeks is a long time
To scrape out all the crumbs that had collected in your purse
Enough to gather some momentum
And shake off every caked and dried up clump of summer
And I’ve got nothing left to hide!
Laps & lapses round the stilted cliffs of Transit