a poem about regrets


You must know how it feels by now,

when all that’s left

are the bars where we drank from long, cool glasses;

when all the lazy weekend hours

that we built up into jutting totems

and soothing fetish objects

have drifted out like coiling vapours

through the cracks in life’s hinges.

Hurry, tell your children your dreams

before the days pack up and go leaving you

looking, but with eyes firmly closed;

a sundial in a darkened room

proudly interrogating the shadows.

Published in Abridged

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