Retreat

On a day

under milk

 

/            there is a silent wave

              above us

 

                                                             /

 

The clouds disagree with the season

Our thoughts spent delaying the inevitable

 

I have been so far past the fence line

I have lost my way back to the front porch

 

The pianist cracks his fingers

(a flash of hail on a tin roof)

 

speeds through the week as an octave

but can never sustain the centre of things

 

If this was the world

before maps

 

/            before the lines we drew

              found their way back to themselves

 

                                                             /

 

I’d sing the songs that summon ghosts and

they would tell me where to rest my head