The edges of things
It’s hard to brush into corners.
The detritus of time
just stays there, musing
about what might have been.
The boundaries of floors,
where the vertical
meets the horizontal
hug their fag-butts to themselves.
***
We head for the corners
like homing lemmings –
to the seedy, the forgotten,
the edges of things.
Hoping for what? A glimpse
of other worlds perhaps,
truer, passionate worlds.
Underworlds of real life.
***
We crawl like babies
to the desert, the cliff edge,
where the seas pour away
into space-time, musing
about what might be.
The edges of things where
We hang around, and hope
To meet infinity face to face.
June 2005
