Thread: Coulds and Buts

I am in a dark place.
It could be a cave
but is likely just my bedroom
and this is likely just night.

There is a summer air, warm,
like the blazoned heat of an exhaust.
I remember winter,
and can see its skin in the creeping corner-room damp.
But it is masked in this sweat,
partial under a whitewash graft.

I miss winter.

Cerulean skies fill my window –
this could be Turkey again.
This could be that night,
and a creak in the wall suggests
you could be in bathroom.

Against the blue like a cut and paste shadow
a spider fights with his own web.
He could be under this roof,
or under the clouds,
a bait on a thread to the gods.

All the same, he shouldn’t struggle –
he will lose himself in his knotting,
just the white star of his deeds.

A police car siren plays its tremolo strings,
and for a second the night retreats.
I see a helpless man,
I feel the blue of his aid like a tongue on my chest.
This is not Turkey. I am alone.
Even the spider is gone.

I am in a dark place.
This could be just a moment,
but is likely just the end.