I swing upon the hour

until midnight stills the soul

and I am nothing but

lumpen flesh, still breathing.



out my window

flowers bloom; but afternoon

rolls so slow and I’m

blown. If lucky I’m

there til the evening

fills me; like sea air.


Turn in,

nothing’s here: tread soft

the wooden stair; some

guilty thing, caught;

on all fours.


I thought

I was

someone else.

Real, breathing.


8 August 2015

4 Responsesso far.

  1. peterlebaige peterlebaige says:

    How lovely is ‘I swing upon the hour’, the feel of the pendulum, the evening filling you ‘like sea air’, and that ‘guilty thing, caught on all fours’. ‘Real, breathing’ is no easy fate! The angst simmers through, fratello!

  2. john keast john keast says:

    As delicate as a flower. Said and unsaid – moving

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