This morning’s wedge of solid light
finds us drowsy, somewhat awed
at these softly drifting exchanges
through what we think of as the world.
The dead skin (which is our skin),
pollen, lazy filaments of cloth,
cardboard, lint and the dust
we shake each evening from our clothes,
as though we’re hiding minor evidence
of some insanely patient escape:
the fine brick, plaster and cement
eroding from the paths we circulate
out together, after work, these fun nights.
Call me up, take me anywhere, I’ll agree.
Perhaps through this sleepy meditation
we can see how this light reveals
that we, too, have never been fixed
in this city, have always taken flight
rootless, boundless in what we want.
Last night, I packed up my room again.
Daniel Bennett was born in Shropshire and live and work in London. His poems have been widely published, most recently in Structo and The Literateur, and has work forthcoming in Under The Radar. He also the author of the novel, All the Dogs. You can find more of his work online at http://absenceclub.tumblr.com/
1 thought on “Motes – Daniel Bennett”
Super extended metaphor!