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.
#365DaysOfPoetry