I can not lift my head,
grown heavy as a sloth planked
in an old rusted bucket.
Thoughts hang like Rastafarian hair
stained in weary flecks,
paint flaking from the elements.
I close my eyes, feel the ache,
a half-turned thought unwinds,
gives me her back, a cloaked temptress
aft-side, portside, south-westerly.
It is evening, a dimmed prayer
crawls towards a mouldy yesterday.
A cloud–picker will appear tomorrow
as the low hiss turns to a hum, a quiver
of worry flows from the first time.
The table is set, cobalt blue
and cinnamon, getting ready for words
in a brown bag to seal and keep fresh.
He is pulling oxen through a rough field,
Are you ok? We can try to go this way.
He would part the crowds just for me.