Thistle





















13th August 2019

Poem




Three floors made it up
to slouch carefully
with trembling wings
across my bed ,bookshelf ,
rug where I keep month-old
correspondence from the
government, work-shoes
& the audacity or courage
to rest neatly in the nook of-aha!-
toilet where the dust of
twelve-hundred showers
licks its fingers
to claw & spit; fragile
it tickles through the air
against me as I pee

& I go to grab it
—these fingers!—
but it slips thin as whispers
beside my cheek
so far from the street
so loose & now so pointless.

in envy, it bobs down the corridor
of my flat, so cute, I stare
& dream its way away.