watching the flag stream
from its pole
the clouds break and gather
the sun find chinks
to shine through.
Another day
melts the clock's stiff hands,
the butter in the airless kitchen
losing its edges
shining hopelessly
under its lid.
You get up in the night
to look at your diary
to remember which days
you are between,
to fill in the blanks
that threaten.
2 comments:
This is amazing. Wide as the world and very intimate. Entirely concrete and descriptive, but full of wild allusion and metaphor and games with language. The terror of the ordinary. A poem about everything.
Oh dear, that poor butter!
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