Missing the point

Missing The Point

 

Missing the point

 

Cooing through the ether in your nursery-rhyme voice,

you describe the view from the upstairs window of

your new apartment; tell them how on certain days

when the pollution levels allow, you can make out

– across the water – strange, impossible mountains

smeared with snow, so distant-looking to you that the

slow parabola of the Earth ought to prevent it somehow.

 

But not every day. What it means is that, as usual, you

won’t be noticing what’s at your feet, tripping you up.

That the knives and forks of sea air are guzzling on

the fatted steel of your car, turning it to useless pumice.

Your front door will need painting. You haven’t managed

to ignore away the flat, crushing ache in your lower back.

And you miss them. And they wish you would come home.

 

 

first published in Verdad Magazine, 2017

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