21 February 2013

awkward stitches

the trees could be winters' bare tongue
against a grey unmoving sky
I can hear it 
it's discontent
as if picking a colour oversteps a boundary and offends
with the streetlights on 
its a bruised kind of blue
I can see my lampshade
reflected in the window as if the window 
is a room I'm looking through
I'm looking out
and my incandescence
I watch the washing line 
make its own horizon
creeping up the glass in the glass between the glass
I wish I couldn't describe
I wish it was impossible
what it means to mean nothing
the page blank the thought unfed
its darker now
not just the lampshade
now the walls the painting
the coat 
hung on the door
a ladder
a loneliness
a crying newborn
no one listening
just the walls
reflected through the window
in the window
is the window

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