#1567 - the novel

1567

5.106

15.iv.24

the novel

for Beth Spencer

 

is a winged thing singing

brings its own window

 

a home of flesh it is

body speaks to another

`

it’s like the garden

I’ve been wishing to be

 

in prospect

by all available means

 

these years of the idea

it unresolves

 

you’re the one to say

can’t care if they’ll listen

 

all shouting really

like conversation

with weather or mother

 

all these years waiting

it should write itself

 

we have flown

it fell

 

strange signs for a screen of sky

 

the book to be

brings the crew required

 

I woke up at the wheel

crossing the bridge

I asked ‘how am I here?’

 

in the novel

a sum of the best parts

 

must have been asleep

must have survived

 

the wishing to be written

 

it’s just as with the ache that wakes you

 

I must live long enough for this

 

the novel grew up all around me

we are related now

 

each alters state

like the forest I’m to free

 

it is a calling

what’s not yet

 

it’s as if the moment

had this attention

only I could give

 

a beautiful lie

to let out