Reply In Which (After Sarah Crewe)

I mention lately I’ve lacked a honeyed mood,

delicates have evaded me. Again I’ve spent too much

trying to ornamentally tile my life. The sofa’s worn

down where I always sit and though my diary’s

clogging up I don’t know how to project.

I am ashamed to want a someone. Social

engagements are propelled by wine,

as unease goes up, eyeliner goes on. Sometimes

I imagine you in your kitchen, stirring soup.

Sometimes I make broth and pretend it will work.

Darling, it seems there’s no awning

to shelter under. Or perhaps I’m under the awning

unable to step out. Someone might cake crumb

a path for me but it doesn’t do to rely on others

to ice your day. I can see the dead roses

are as pretty as the live, appliqué

sleep to my brittle concerns. I have an aspiration

you will recognise my handwriting, in time.

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