the view across the table leads not to the sea
as the multi-spiked flowers might suggest

but rather towards a piecemeal idea of future life
called ‘i have done it and have a dog called SNIP’.

he is a good dog but Boy does he blend
and run all over chasing a tale or 2
to tell at glitzy parties in his best ruffle.

well, i’m not sure i have time for that kind of thing,
i have other people’s art to look at and it
takes up a lot of time. i barely

do anything else and my fingers are worn to the
bone- i have blisters from gripping the days in a
semblance of doing- it’s exhausting son.

while all through this the drought makes mirages
in the shape of space, i shuffle towards them but
like an eyeless magpie miss the glint. oh my

it’s probably better to be enrolled, yet the grass
is dead. my therapist has broke her foot and i want
to put her in a litter. i will ask her if this is normal

with my common sense face, and she will say
‘but what happens when we reach the sea?’
in a voice of wonder, of dread.