Saturday, September 25, 2004

Low

Flat walls reflecting in
A stone, a plastic arch
A base of grit and scale
No tide, no night and day
No sun or moon, no beach
Insignificant debris
In no grand scheme of things
Air rises and food falls
Emerging from beyond
A constant chugging pump

The very smallest grains
At the bottom of the tank
Where the goldfish nose
In their reflex search
Upending shit and gravel
Staving off their pangs
It's maybe just because
That is what you do
When scum is more inviting
Than predatory sky

Take in and spit out lumps
Devoid of all nutrition
Monotonous and safe
Same as last time round
Vague memory of food
A hand, a golden hour
Some other time and place
Risk rising up to catch
The momentary manna
In gulps of recklessness

DFRW 11th May 2004

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