I’m in love with next week. Like next week is climbing a set of stairs slowly, meeting my eyes. I can’t talk to next week. I cannot touch next week. Next week never comes. I am trying on this endless love. You can imagine how it fits. All the next weeks are the same.

 

& it’s bruising, bruising to wait, thumpilly bruising in the neck & the air, all my air, arriving with a limp in lung & lung & the head, an emptied bag of chips & I do not care, actually, to imagine how it fits     you can walk in circles round your heart for seven days walk in circles, or find a body of water & take off all your clothes

 

Sun hots sticky green, the plastic camellia, the boy, eleven, on an old bike, new-haired legs veeing out from the seat, then the light hinges on its bright black axis and the childhood street swings slow over into drained colours. Somewhere, a huge cube is 

tipping off its too small pivot.

Almost lost, but 

for the yearning.