I’d like to go out, softly.
To drink, and laugh.
To go out without
feeling the same sickness
on the merry-go-round.
The posies, purple, vibrant,
leaning in an old pesto jar,
and the heavy weather
above the chimney stack,
antenna pointing west.
You read into
these windows,
the arch of the sky,
big top, from there
it’s a big drop,
to the shower block,
the grass and the mud
scattered, clods on boots,
the cubicle smell
of other people’s shower gel.
I’ve been listening to Lenker,
again. Can you tell?
The weekend wind
hugged quickly by cheap
beige curtains
then letting go.