(for Anna)
She brought me a box of magnetic
words,
and now the kitchen has become a poem
that writes itself,
unpredictably, at night.
Under our fingers sudden meanings form,
these
phrases stick like burrs.
We are all accidental poets,
wild and free
raw
sculpt ing.
The room is loaded, layered
with chance
collisions,
broken language.
These days we feed off words.
We can't
make a sandwich
without making
a point.
Breakfast produces gloomy
sentiments,
a morning smear
cigarette pain.
Lunchtimes become
journeys
which begin, and end, at the fridge door
in an unfinished
sentence,
break out of
When the house is empty
I find messages with
the frozen food
like cries for help.
Who wrote i like him dead this
morning?
she suffered ?
Graffiti artists of white goods,
we are all
anonymous.
Like children we scatter words;
random and ominous,
they
cling.
Who wrote we don't make sense
as if it made sense?
Soon the
box runs out; we all get bored.
The fridge buzzes, inscrutably,
and I go
hungry
for magnetic words.