Sunday, 22 February 2015

I Wish This Place

Sand has formed itself to shell
Impossibility within which to dwell

Good luck, fair weather, another year
For the place that stays on here

My wish is more selfish than that
I want to take it, wrap it up

I pick up the corners of loose bricks
And fold them slowly, light as air

I slip the windows into my bag
And into my pocket goes the door

I find a compass of zigzag tracks
A ballet of heavy machinery

Scaffolding falls into a telescope
Now thin lines are holding up the sky

I wish this place well, and I wish it ill
But it takes off alone, and I haven’t the will

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