Space Is Not Equal to Y or X

 

I wake to the world

constructed without dreams,

the one I left to dust itself

off in blue exhaustion.

 

Uncorked wine, just a

glass gone, rind of cheese,

hunk of bread tilted sideways,

The exoskeleton of

grapes, vine left without

a clue to their colour.

 

The rains of winter descend

outside, and I am

unbalanced, in wool socks

waiting for distance

to become time.