Final Morning Table
Tom Pyle
Try to catch
September
In the silent pools before you.
It’s there, I promise.
An almost imperceptible movement,
Light. Refracted through tap water,
Taste it. Bitter, like the grains in your teeth,
It lingers. Asking to be recognised
Merely as part of the story.
Footsteps in the courtyard.
Flies drifting against lace.
The fierce scent of soap on your fingers,
Slicing the throat
In restless sunlight
Bottled minerals pouring
Through plaster pipes
Rotting in your bed
With window shards
And neon midnights
Statues, páprika paste
Peach-stone bells
Disorientation.
And the ache
Of your knee
Striking cold stone
In shadow,
Before you found the light switch.
In that ancient stairwell.
See, it has gripped you.
It demands to be included.