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.