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Monday, 1 June 2015

'Stuff' - new poem


Miranda likes to point stuff out.
Walking hand in hand with her down the street
she’ll note the colours of the blossoming trees,
or a bird sitting high up on some branch,
or the interesting billowing of the clouds.

I don’t notice these things. Never have.
When I tell Miranda this she says
“you’re supposed to be a poet”, and I reply
that the only thing more boring than nature
is nature poetry. She smiles

and the pixels of her hand sink through mine
like sand through a funnel. She dissipates;
the street sucks up every trace of her.
“Was her name even Miranda anyway?” I ask
as I watch the pavement’s sutured lips

where a small, white flower grows. 

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