Slipping in Mud
The edges of me are permeable,
they mix with something going wrong with the 'phone
so no one can speak to me
and I can't speak to anyone
and the dog with a sore throat
and the grey back of next door's shed
gaping behind my winter cherry
even though I read the same books as those who
live in a solid world which goes round and round and
gets verifiably light and dark
and if their thoughts do wander
without knowing where to
it doesn't look like it to me
who wanders up to my ankles
in running water, slipping in mud.
Page(s) 11
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