#1180 - by rights

 

1180

26.iii.23

4.85

by rights

 

days you wake and the whole world’s taller

misted in a greygum height

 

as if all my breath

were this whim world

 

and set off therein

till some season comes

lean slippered, bootless even

 

paper left in pockets

shake later

 

so many pages blank of the mind

tide out

in the wash

 

least corners where no one will look

 

gone through the wringer

lately spun

hung to tell weather

 

I have followed every ancestor

into this obscurity

 

these are the least places

 

stand off then till we see

 

there’s no one even asking

who’s to find us here