Wool

Wool

It is not that she cannot see without her glasses, more that,
without them, the world is too wide.

The carriage clock above the storage heater
tells lies at night,
takes her to years her heart feels fit her.

She leaves a note to her grand-daughter
tells her to think of teeth as ladder rungs
and so to finger pace when feeling low,
and scrabbling climb,
instead of sinking, to open spaces
where hair hangs thick as a habit across both collarbones
and a breath can't claim to anything.

The bit she didn't write
but breath-o-graphed the window with,
is that she sometimes gets stuck in brain spaces,
and that waking in one is as dangerous,
as creaking openly down streets.