Space Is Not Equal to Y or X
A poem
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.