Grasp

That foggy spirit of endlessness fills every corner of a bedroom

And my own thoughts and reminiscences move intangibly

Around desks, behind drapes, under chair legs and duvets

My mind carries me back through that blackness of room

To some small child with my own features, impossibly softened

Screwed up into some emotional pose that I only remember feeling

It’s as if the only way to nudge that child from its stubborn grasp at the ends of my hair

Is to transfer its consciousness to paper, so that it may leave me for some indeterminate period