Ran in rings, what was it for? A spinning-top Jenny Jelly-tot
picking up a penny from the train carriage floor,
the rain flecks drying on the window like ageing seams
of childhood hopes, pages of storybook paper, pieces of pepper,
and marriage was one of the eight pipe dreams.
Days blinking by, stolen gold moments, each a little better,
and stolen jewelled eye in the place of dreams once were
but none now sleep can't recur, just sketches of skittish things
like stars on screens, like clocks and where-have-you-beens
and keys without locks or too many knots to untangle strings.
Handshakes and spills the soil that pours from a pen
into sad-bad-mad landfills, and the mouth with pills
a little too dopey too late, dwarfed days and nights, just when
the dawn calls 24 hour sorry services, so you can compensate
with apologies, lodging into the cerebral arteries.
It's all in and about the head. Up to date, running a breath too late.