The mechanics

No clear idea – no clear sense
of what to say – just prowing
out with fingers into the waters of the self

Delusion is a foul fiend
offering itself as comfort,
a blanket of hope

But if someone takes your hand,
leads you round the curtains
you have hung

if you open up the casement
to pure reason
then there are the mechanics

of losing and grieving. Each
new curve and sinew
is a prod to thought

that issues out in sleeps
of yesterday to die each
dawning, each thawing

moment where no more skirting
but seeing what was there was not
and is not – as clouds