I’m not especially charmed by the way the summer collected
Pooling about the fallen calendar leaflets like mild rain water.
I’m not especially proud of being proud to clasp expensive jewlery
Crease evening dresses whilst half dozing and dreary on the couch.
I’m not especially loft with feigning progress towards a deadline
and soaking up praises as a log does, bobbing against the waterline.
I would lie if caught denying excuses to reflect on lifestyles
far beyond my swimming span, the name for such aspirations
I would surely abhor. I’ve found cause for filling vases with sugar beads
promising the stale stalks no hope of fresh dousing, while wilting in the
harsh sunshine of possibilities, nearly myself a cross cut stem of clay flora.
So lovely, less lively by the day.
Hold my breath in wait of that caughing
of failure. I’m still reading the work of a dear dreadful Virginia
Woolf. How fitting; it seems we are pulling each other under.