Poems 3

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Poem

I climb inside the page. Pure white.

Something thicker than mist but less ominous

          heavier than snow but just as malleable. 

There’s an abundance of the word dark.

I wade through the letters. 

sometimes with ease.       other times with peril.

Stumbling on the italicisation of depression

I lean my weight against it. It creaks like an ancient tree.

Tipped off the edge of a sentence 

poverty cushions the blow, 

                                                       bounces me into hunger.

Some question

is swirling

in a cesspool 

of notes, 

desperate 

to be freed. 

Is it a surprise that the page makes harsh words kind?

Crashing on the sofa of a room with peeling walls 

stench of cigarette smoke baggies and cut straws litter the floor 

nowhere else to go so easily erased. 

I stay anyway    headtorch bright among the white and dark

stalking some Delphian creature    until I startle upon it    blade in my hand

rabid with readiness to fashion a fur coat    sink teeth into its meat.

To be a hunter must there always be something to hunt?

Does a mirror still work in the dark?