sequence of badly-shot interior details. but the roses in the front garden are in bloom. and i have a new poem, part of a series called ‘problems of geometry’.
ii.
to walk through a window is a problem
of geometry where glass slicks
down and skin subtracts from skin,
the redness of your blood older
than spilt milk, anterior to the first
dead possum in the street this year
curved against the gutter’s shell
after electrocution, fur all flied
and hailed on, a plastic cup
in the hands of a nervous child at a birthday party:
and i think this is what you need,
panes shuttering like eggs when
the cuckoo bird comes, knocks
them to the ground and settles in
for a temporary winter, i think
you need to become other things
and fill your cracks with air, spend
whole dreams collecting teeth
like so many ruined acorns.
Ainslee Laura Meredith, you are a live wire inspiring my neurons into creative action. And I, clearly, am trying too hard to avoid cliched phrases of praise. But really, I mean i t.
I read it eight times, once to Napoleon