Inside yourself. In the space of yourself. Watching your feelings flying, litter in a gale, down the main strip. Seeing it all with that 'accident moment' acuity. A curious distance between you and your emotions, as close to being two as is possible.
Seeing
discarded matches
on the pub floor,
reflections in
gutters,
cobwebs in the
corners of ceilings,
petals shed and
shriveling,
railings’ wrought
iron curlicues,
broken windows,
tattered curtains,
carrier bags snagged
on branches,
the moon running
along beside me,
heron one-legged by
the pond,
a glove on the
footpath;
each fleck, speck,
flaw in your argument;
every minute
branded, second burned
as thoroughly as a
pipe smoker’s match.
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