From the West Wing


The hospital sits within a concentric circle of time: through

the window a black bird


sits in a white-trunked tree, a vacant car park sprawls, a train

hurtles by, a sunless day


sucked of joy is suspended grey on a hanger. I have special

powers: can see forward and back,


remember the future in fine cartographic lines — jigsaws of

boats that blur to become animals


drawn with fingers on hot sand. There are coastlines of touch,

a vulnerability in the face


of sharp pointed instruments — I am reminded of miracles:

the small happy cloud I lived on mothering


two small boys. You endlessly scroll on your phone and I turn

the pages of a book with images


of temporal sculptures from water, ice, leaves, feathers. It occurs

to me that we live in a world


that is both hard and soft: not easy to distinguish between them.

The magenta wall of this room


is an unkind industrial colour. You sleep, half-turned away and

your lashes sweep a cheek moments ago


an angry red. Time is a stretch of nerve fibres: anticipation and

regret. Across the river, first lights blink.

Share This