First comes the desire to escape,
to look up for listed
names and ruffle through
your drawers for the lost
time-tables of long distance
trains,
then an empty freedom
roaming in the uncertainty
of the next second,
next an echo that twists
and curls around the
habit of everyday, you
look at the catalogue
of the pending day, it
stands barren like an
empty street on a summer
day, you now know where
your colours descended from,
now your days are hung like
wet linen on murky days,
you quicken home but for once
you pause before your door
when it strikes you hardest
you turn back to the unexplored
alleys but the strength in your legs
are gone,
days pass practicising words
you want to write
