I have missed it.
Particularly daffodils. Noticing noticing.
Flowers under street lights. A pollarded tree.
That this place isn’t enough,
that there’s a pain in my chest,
the things people say are too simple.
Where does noticing go?
Is there an image, the burnt out pier,
returning it to scaffold? Old gas works?
The doctors tell me if I can touch the pain,
it isn’t my heart.
Flowers under street lights,
negatives in yellows.
My daughter used to say
‘I want to go home,’
when things hurt too much
and we were already there.
Is it a packed case..
or the act of packing?
A park, a certain tree?
After my heart attack, white negative,
everything left behind.
Words were a burnt tree.
Like after a burglary. Or possibly, war.
Take what you can, and go.
Looking in all the wrong places.
A woman told me once
that she watched her house burn down.
And after the death of his child
a man writes a book called
I want to go home.