a poem about making your own world


A grey and heavy Tuesday

sprawls to the horizon;

the window might open onto a courtyard

filled with colour and life,

but never does. I want to drive a nail

deep into the clouds

and hang a bright canvas across the sky –

a crinkled hymn to day and night –

but try as we might, we’d always know

that the moon is just a lump of wood,

the sun a crumbling dried flower

and the stars only shiny little stones

hanging by loops of string

from the spindly branches of a tree.

We see ourselves as reflections

smudged in the back of a spoon,

two changing people in the same clothes each day,

so we rush on like open razors,

cutting open all the things that could have held us

while we grab a feeling or two

from a book as we pass by.

Now there’s noise in the courtyard,

but the spoon needs washing

and the brittle sun slowly drops a petal.

Published in SurVision

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