The act of waiting

And where do you say we start 

to shake ourselves of our memories and reason?


To greet the bewildered road with our soggy 

and aimless feet.

With eyes streaming,

now downcast from the round sky, 

fingering the small hole at the centre of all the thinness.


You look something like my brother, in the nose.

But perhaps I told you that already.

Perhaps it doesn’t matter either way. 

It all folds, creases at the ear

or approximation of

a rough middle. 


When did you say you were arriving? 


Spreading fire, the cave




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