Everywhere there is an ache. I close my eyes, as I might as a child, and see the most psychedellic brown wallpaper. In the grip of fever – I observe some things, some thoughts too unfathomable to record on this primative tape.
The body exerts all its energy on fighting the virus, freeing me from concerns of the everyday. And I need only to read an undemanding book.
Leave the search for meaning to the trinkets on the mantlepiece. I have taken to collecting figurines of owls. I turn, pale-faced, to some kinda new year.
I haven’t written much,
in a while…
the locks are old and weak;
and suspended in mid-air beside them
and the keys to many other locks on
a large gold ring.
the jailer is eating a sandwich. O!
What shall we do with the jailer
and his sandwich?
It is an exceedingly large meal for one person.
This could take a while –
let this poem eat your time.
Power Rangers lunchbox,
bright red plastic
holds no sandwich now.
The red box for breadcrumbs
much like this one.