New days come like the past seems to fade away
with no beginnings, all dissociative
morning songs, and I am rapt
in fugue cloud and sun dapple, reflected
onto torn screens. I only just feel it
hit my just woke skin.
The stain from underneath a warm cup
embeds itself in rings like a signet's seal
on all the cluttering, all my belongings.
Gold-amber turned to seafoam green.
The moment of that colour conception
is loved and jilted by lacklustre artist's
half heart oblivion, trying to catch
the detail in all and anything
but only/in order to overlook
everything else.
Anything else? A plate of buttered toast
and a chilled glass of-
and in the absence of one thing,
find another, find another, feel for another.
Another is felt for,, slummed for,
mourned for, maddening-gone for,
hurry-upped for, make-believed for.
Rhapsodies in blues,
elbows on the tables,
clear-eyed sight, clear-cut smile
Find the ones you do not confuse.
