• Vol. 02
  • Chapter 12
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If Not For This

You can’t conflate hobble down rafters life with us: the climbing ones, the left behind. That is for the masters to do, not us, and we live and breathe these sunlit splinters, end of the dust breached day all you’re looking for is a place to lay your head. Flat. We miss our knees our scratch in the dark kisses you will long back for this one day I tell you, glue head face in the mist and what are all our reachings for if not for this?

Golden thread sag of the arched morning the slip when you realise the task is done. We met your acquaintance by the singing space the flag raised your mother there, my mother there and what are we for if not for this?

Dew dances slowly you know, not fast - that was the racket of the clattering birds the clambering and shitting drips us down smooth into crumbled crown-ground the Subutteo pitch mismanaged, the players left for dead. I saw a lion once in a golden throne ascending and descending from a Christmas pantomime and I cried my crisp little heart out called in Mama, Mama, take me away, Mama, why do we have home if not for this?

Misused daylight is why I come here for the stop start motion of the calling, the hands and knees route of the strips of forgotten. Why tell me I ask or when for the cat who visits his hair his territory his advisory stroke. I have missed too many places I come for the not missing for the blank for the filter of evening through broken for the time you might look up and see. Why do I lean out if not for this?