The page was blank until I wrote this,
that, then, now.

All time is passing,
this thing we are party to is everlasting
and our bodies grow old.

I will not let this poem go
I could just let it grow and grow
and never develop it.

The word develop makes me think of the womb
and camera film.
A poem is an egg, fertilise it with your vision,
photograph it with your eye.

Every word releases image after image,
fireworks form a question mark in a dark sky,
synapses snap like fruition,
my apples smother the ground, waiting to rot.

I can’t remember anything that has happened to me clearly                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                
let alone to the world.
Is anyone ever sure that anything really happened?

And the tea is too hot and the toast is too cold,
dreams of intermingling sips of tea and
bites of toast crust, turn to dust on my lips
and it is time to go to work.