Somewhere in a river of red Sundays,
in thick drifts of January headlines,
somewhere in black boxes of old crosswords,
perched nervous on a taut wire of sunshine,
I’ve waited for you to give me back my mind.
Somewhere in yellowed photograph albums,
in a million cracks of brittle glassine,
staring at the six-faced dies of mind games,
turning the wheels of dead mundane routine,
I’ve waited for you to tell me what you mean.
The years fall like petalled rain on fingers
and both my hands and eyelashes are wet.
On the highway piled up sullied winters.
You’re still out shooting, eyeballs on target,
but no more waiting, I’m primed to forget.
Eyelids are woven so they’d be drip-dried,
strength’s a dragon kite flying at its own will.
I’ve torn up all the rivers and cracked glassine
and forced the boxes open, dies to spill.
You’ll be in sometime. I’ll be quite civil.
And I’ll claim back each of the shot Sundays,
and every blank box on the crossword grid,
rake back each ribbon of hijacked mindspace
and weave myself a pair of fresh, new eyelids
and brush off all that you did, and undid.
