The Lightness of a Likeness, Removed

In the silence, let the thoughts
rise, morbid to the ceiling;

let them break like waves
against our Christmas tree.

The earthquakes are always too
far away for us to feel a thing.

The radio’s on again, louder
somehow and old newspapers form

a grey tower. The telephone rang
seventeen days ago: it was the

doctor and he left no message.
The window-cleaner unsettles

each and every one of us;
I just nod with the water

and suds as they land.
The carpet bears its scars

soaking in ice at least
twice a month. It’s a strange

sympathy and then it’s gone.
A bird hit the window and

left a mark like a phoenix
in grease, feathers and clay.


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