I have to write!
Which begs a million tangents.
But I’m in my bath robe
and my house needs organising
and these papers need sorting
and there are dates disappearing
into forests of my mind that choke with unclearing.
And an artist has died, and the whole world should have cried
but it all goes on.
The dust is swirling
to come over my fence.
It lands so finely over everything
reminding me of that dream the other night
when I saw you.
And nothing was
And the wind is picking up the dust again…