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.