“the little laps of luxury” – Sylvia Plath

he runs from luxury
into the sea
drowns, lives again
drowns and lives

paintings don’t help any more
he feels out of touch
can’t unwind
floats, and swims

doesn’t sink
to the sea floor
to look at coral
brush lips of fish

freedom’s a life away
he dreamt he dreamt
and the tide flowed


A fizzer

We return books to the library and browse. You’re in health and I’m in poetry. I see your body through the bookcases, along with Bible Trivia and a volume of poems.

“Nothing feels solid enough to walk upon,” writes Paula Green.

tired of ideas . . .
the wind
of the air-conditioning

A man has that side-ways look along shelves. I drop my head as if embarrassed and come across the word ‘labile’. We take out some books and head for the shops and, after doing just a little shopping, drive home.

I read last night in Alan Watts that everything is fused and as it is.

the wing of a dead bird
opens and closes
on the road

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