Forsake

a white morning:
footprints on the bathmat,
the cupboard door yawns open.
no one wants to speak
but life has not stopped.
the light edges a plant’s leaves
with dust and silver.
you sit on the window sil;
oustide
they woke hours ago:
the girl with the red gloves,
clasps then around a paper cup
and the fat man leans over the litter bin
to get his breath back.


then when everything dwindles
there is orange.
the last verse of the song,
the cat arching it’s back
on the arm of the old settee.
familiar and ongoing
but always wonderful
and surprising.

1. 2012-2075 reblogged this from forsake
2. paleshades liked this
3. forsake posted this