Sunday

I wake up to the rain, and am pleased 
for the garden, dry as a nun’s lips.
I stare at it, growing it out in my

brain. I suppose I am a dying breed,
I say, and wish I was smoking-
at least I was a nihilist, back in the day.

I suppose I am. I keep doing these
Internet tests and looking at stranger's
photos. I can’t see myself in them.

Pouring themselves out into progress
like little pilgrims, the girls miss
trains, their mothers and sisters on them.

The sun comes out. I am pleased
for the garden. Later I will sit in a
bar, talking about things I disagree with.

My flesh will be observed. Invisible
score cards will score my body
to the patterns of pop-stars. 

I could do without mine, in reality.
It isn’t me, and never was.
I am a tendril of light, orographer.

I refresh myself and put away
days, like balled socks-
crowing up to the yellow-toothed moon.



1 comment:

neelthemuse said...

Such beautiful word play Emma....glad I found you!