cracked window looks at clouds, the mountain.
ledge, dead moths stretched out in
all their softness, stunned by light.
sewn curtains stir memories, indicate
a private place to weave and mend
here are the items, the installations,
here are the photographs i take
each day. here are the worries
placed in the cupboard, with notes,
for you to read.
after meeting my imaginary friend, attending an important
meeting, where there was no importance at all, i drove
to see the fish, and met the capybara.
who was surprised? its hair all needing drawing,
nose a blot, and the paw resting so. so
quiet it was, perhaps a sadness. it stood
alone, as did i.
the little capybara, there.
i took no photograph.
how there is no explaination there.
i will print one and place it wednesday.
reminded of basildon bond, now there is
an emblem, and quality paper. buy
blotting paper, to remember those times
of ink spreading. the clues wrote backwards
if we choose to hear them.
so we talked of death, i find i know nothing
very much. except this is the softest