Museum. Paintings.
Behind glass; in frames. Then
the walls they cling to. The foundations of these buildings.
The cleaner with his mop. The tannoy: bliss.
The rain on the roof. Sorry—
the entrance lobby; the child running:
I would love to give him a pen. Free rein.
My wispy thoughts. My old coat, stained.
My stained heart? Yuk. I am careless
but in love with something, perhaps—
it sounds like it.
The point I was getting to
now—O yes: whatever we look at
next; I am ever so away.
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ashley dunn 
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