The difference between Monday and Sunday; A vague salt upon the upper lip of some life apart, Pages incarnate in an acrid stomach guilt, And some bread and wine selling out Before I make it to the queue.
Between the rest, perhaps a better hour; A few words absorbed, wrapped in cling film Like the ham and pickle I take on the train, On the bread leftover from the priest on Sunday. Slightly stale.
For the most part, I try to keep on my shoes And off the grass. The cling film makes it Exceedingly difficult to know - And I can never quite discern The start of the horizon.
And the irony of it is, I can’t cling to much Myself. City smog is honeysuckle riding A summer’s breeze; Singapore slings, Coffees and teas, and daydreams of you Are more real than me.
It’s like looking through a car window, Seeing outside rush away behind you Before you can think about how beautiful it is. Like having tired of a masterpiece from which You expected timelessness.