cubic feet.
Staring at a word unknown to you, on page 127. Trying to guess its meaning. You want to read on, but your eyes whirlpool back to the word. What’s it mean?
Minutes later you realise this: you still have no clue as to what the word means. Not a chance. Your efforts are useless, context won’t help.
Has this been a journey?
You come up with any beauty or use?
Did that word stare back at you?
You the same person you were before?
For all you know it might mean:
longing, a breeze, roller skates unused,
pins dislodged, a route being discovered,
fusilli with cream,
an exercise in making things right.
A surface that won’t make any sense,
the next-door neighbour wheezing,
a 7-day pill box, cheese — half gone.
The swipe in a swipe-card, worn leather,
a photograph stolen, a square but not a circle,
a call going directly to voicemail — insistence.
A cat undecided, your pinky stuck to the ring finger,
room-service delivering food with a dome-lid on,
colours mismatched,
not unlike a drop of sweat.
Someone sipping a grand cru,
a dollar bill, a to-do-list on the fridge door,
a shriek dreamt half awake, C-minor,
wrapping paper dripping with grease,
a conversation cut short — a metric.
That thing — always blurry,
that word you wouldn’t’ve thought
might matter at all.
