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.
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.