The milk-bottle tops
have become a golden pyramid;
a tomb before time.
Someone must be able to use this stuff.
The newspapers
the death of each day
growing up the walls.
Someone must be able to use this.
The pieces of string
twice the distance from
the middle to the end:
still not long enough.
Someone must be able to.
The cutlery which related
to no other, in a drawer
which would not shut.
Someone must.
The dolls’ heads in shoe boxes and
their tooth-paste tube lid lamps and
object upon object upon
Potential
buoying-up and pressing-down,
a grandmother dwarfed by
the scale of her own refusal
to shrink to one thing, but
who shrunk nonetheless.
Someone.
Sharing is caring:
No comments yet.