— a hand groping around a junk drawer
in a dusk-darkened kitchen
constantly searching for the next metaphor by which I can better understand the state I am in.
In the drawer beneath me as I write this,
there is a photograph, a couple of months old and not yet fading,
ink cartridges, scattered loose change.
I wrote four years ago that at the right time, in the right light, everything is magnificent.
But at 7:45pm, just before everyone else gets home, standing in the dark while the loneliness seeps from you and stains even the shadows darker, perhaps everything can be a poem.
Perhaps, in these blended and hazy days, the golden, stuttering glow of poetry falling short of celebration becomes a sort of redemption.
A rewriting. A gentle wind shifting the tides of a worn story in an ever-so-slightly different direction.
Through the kitchen window, where a few droplets remain from the evening’s brief rain, the lights from the street are refracted and scattered.
The world hangs suspended upside down, wobbling once, before it dissolves and follows its neighbour’s trail down the glass.

One thought on “metaphor

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