The street by the house is a frame straight line,
riddled with gaps and fixes filled with water
between now and then and now and when
these puddles lie reflecting rainbow sheen.
I forget nearly always, I forget how it felt
In the spiral of it all, the close coupling of routine,
I forget the lines beneath the skin and the flash of deep sea
The blue lines lying underneath with red
And I find it infinitely easier to remember
them as buildings and objects,
that silver foil stuck to that bench, for instance, that’s you
That red bucket upturned over prickly grass is you.
As darkness falls a memory of suspended water and light
I begin to chase the fog, down the street past the restaurant,
I chase the fog, I run
holding head above water hoping I see clearly
I run through the sky winding flutes, I don’t know where or when
Perhaps happiness breathes its breath in a lifelong meal,
strands dissected and held together over pockmarked breath
But somewhere a burning sun
now, then and when,
surely somewhere a perpetual red burning sun.
ink in sky 