How constipated on your own confidence you are. How you’re the rain on my face, the sun on my hair, and the flowers blah blah blahing. How you never pause for my redundant droll perishable memories like that one time I had my hand up a cloud, like that one time I had my friends hanging on my words as if by the thinnest wisp of Silly String. How you fit so many ghost seconds between the seconds. How the hands of your clock tighten like Tua’s fingers in concussion. How everything will be better once you’re over, but you’re never over, you’re always beyond that bend in the weekend, that run in Sunday’s stocking. How you don’t read for pleasure. How you look employed in the shop window. How your windows are spiderwebs of silt. How there’s an imperfection in your perfect binding, and it may be me, my thoughts, my position in the boat that’s throwing off our balance. How you are the sidereal secondary stability of which I’m unwilling. How you’re ordered automatically and billed intravenously. How there’s no free shipping on returns. How I spend the most minutes awake in you and all I want to do is sleep in you, and keep that sleep in a glass box like one of Mao’s mangoes. How you have no retirement plan. How we highlight you to death in neon yellows, oranges and greens. How through all this incessant marking and obnoxious annotation you plan trips to koala Lumpur with your sister. How you have no sister, unless she’s the one rising from the milky waters of the earth’s core. How you’re options are only one: wide awake without eyes or even a brain. How James Tate says he is not just a bunch of white stuff inside his skull but you are. How I’m almost certain you are.
for more weekday based poetry from Tim Staley go here.