Thursday, 13 April 2017

Day Eleven


Various times in life I have perceived
distance as crucial and inconsequential.
I have loved fiercely in hinterlands
And taken umbrage into a bear hug
But the purlieu of myself, I think,
Was lost to a great many some time ago.

I never had the tools to make us a home.

I cannot be content in a moment;
It's not an airlock, corked from time and distance.
I cannot pitch a wheel and eject myself
From my element. I could founder in deep water
Or be happily cast away. Then either could follow
And either follow that. I once fancied myself safe and sound.
I had time. I was a good distance from the storm
But it had, in truth, been forecast

And I never had the tools to make us a home.

I lost the plot. A great many, in fact.
Now I whittle away the days making tools
Let the houses take care of themselves
And I dare not attend to how high they're built
Or just how long they'll stand. 
I just gotta keep working away

Or I'll never have the tools to make us a home.


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