the best security is still a squeaky door
a book dedicated to all the dreamers
that I can’t be bothered reading   busy
crossing out st anthony in the back shed
          looking for my sneakers

some people go to church on sunday morning
but we go running

our house misses you terribly while you’re haunting it

it hurts me most when I see you alone in the evenings
a flashmob of new ideas and half plans

as promised
the northerly does come to resurrect december
– it turns the prayer wheels in your absence
before starting the long ascent towards
the hilltop monastery

          I believe
I’m an atheist in the true sense
taking to the week before new years
like an addict to a prescription

I’m only good at being modern
          at simply passing through

while brushing my teeth ritually before bed
‘who could it be now?’ plays
on the vintage radio by the vanity
& it’s you – of course it’s you
– it has to be you
          this feeling   as real
as an ashram with your name on it

I know the following to be true:
          that we are in the world now

& we remain
whether we are together or apart
          in this share-house or the next

I am in the bedroom upstairs
where the heat has risen
writing this
waiting for the wave

 

 

there is no wave

 

Dominic Symes