written mainly to bump the last entry downwards

these lines will rove but not drill down, honouring

memory but moving through it, um maybe…

worry fucks me up it’s not a buzzword

 

begun in the office on a squalid wednesday

swimming in a glow of just one kernel of thought

grasped as my car sluices the river fog:

the time you spend alone at a lovers’ house

the first times     absorbing smell, accoutrements,

laundry processes, books

i missed that & why do i keep demarcating

 

is clarity ever gained by this though &

by afternoon i’m already more conscious

of a slight disinclination to kiss

 

nobody wants to pay too much attention to intuition

but it’s hard – this seems a clear marker of ‘things’

bubbling   stupidly in each moment i pour wine each evening

nervous to make each occasion a celebration while

only wanting couches & verse & cinematography &

careful touch

 

so much ‘and’

so much ‘each’

 

picture me carefully adding people & events

even though the shock of joining you at a table

a laughing last supper of unknown guests still

gives a lemon-acid jolt to the stomach

 

repeat the mantra that you have a lot: like

the only ever birthday i’ll need

 

the weekend whimsy of darren’s songline

‘what have i learned?’ feels the opposite of whimsical

as i turn it off & keep doing things – real or imagined

thought hurts, past & still-so-present-tense love

destroys my cadences idk maybe

it’s a good thing, this work becoming

at last understandable even

as you hone relief

structure calm

whittle me away

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