Come October, it was What to expect: the first
year, Sue Gerhardt’s Why love matters, which I LOVED
and thought should be compulsory or handed out
for free, and How not to f*** them up, which was kind of
reassuring. April, it was back to
Joseph Heller’s Picture this, because I had to. Closed
and shifting in my skinny bag, I didn’t even have to
open it. Just to know it was there. August, September, another
October. On my desk I’ve got Into the deep street:
seven modern French poets, Muldoon’s Plan B,
Boccaccio’s Decameron. For months I’ve been reading
none of them. The other day,
I put them on the unvacuumed floor, one on top
of the other, like an unbalanced bust or a worn-out torso,
the way things look after a rather wakeful night. A sort-of nest.
I pressed the weight of my head into the covers
for an uninterrupted doze or thought
or a few-seconds of I’m not even sure what.
What I’d been before, perhaps.

First published in Magma Poetry #53, Summer 2012.