Tuesday, 23 October 2012

This Remembering Thing

How, like an old man, the world seems
now I'm twenty-six. The raw quickness
of the stove atmosphere now cold and absent.

I once saw a small bird when I was small
land on a fence and look at me.
Its feathers like a summer dress on the wood.

I once broke my knee when I ran with my brothers
and fell. Sometimes I floated easily to a
made-up heaven because I had a good imagination.

I hated growing up like I hated going to school.
Now this old, bruised sky, weary and laid-back
like a large bird in the garden who doesn't care,

who doesn't sense danger but instead
treats it with disdain. Sometimes I sit
on my bed and listen. The sounds lessen

when I'm alone. I become this remembering thing.
When I was eleven years old my Nan died.
But then my sister was born, the world like a tepid bath.

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