26
How dull to talk of rain, again,
again cold piercing spiked assaults
to sting the plodding foot
from knee to almost coat.
How dull, again, to errand out for food,
and sugar, and count the flexing
money spent, How dull, to look to the hills,
and once again imagine
that a poem will come crawling.
No, no, now we wax wood
of pencils broken, on paper, unlined
as the swirled rain of limping sleep.
No, no, in this light
no onions chopped, or drool, or longing:
just cardboard and bright words
of passing time; between the drops.
Hope, drab hope, of days beyond
the kerb, the terraced sprawl
leading to harsh lights that stun
food hopping into baskets
to pull the arm to waste upon the waist.
How dull.
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