Another set of dreams with another man’s
name, whom I know to be better,
and says it better, was talking last night-
which is how it works;
I get back to it and realise that the words
were mine; back in the place that
speaks, when you can’t, or you’re
not in the mood, because I’ve barely
read a word of this poet, and his stuff
is all still here, ready to connect.

My house is busy today, being painted outside
by a squat giant;
flesh hanging from his vest with just
enough form, and smiling work expression,
to tell you that he works instead of giving up,
and setting fire to any face that disturbs him
because I still hear his ladders until 5ish,
when his van pulls away, and the rest of his day
is beyond my eyes.