Coming To
Because the relationship was at fault The room became at loggerheads With dropped ceiling and inclined walls, And the floor caved under lights that Dipped like spiralling sycamore. As her face grew close my eyes, Focusing, trapped its movement, Quietened it and with perspective, Hung it in the fluid atmosphere Like a second, insipid lamp.
Rectified, her stance now upright, My body weakened with efforts to Control my eyes, she loomed with tray And needles to fuss efficiently.
A trolley rattled in the corridor.
Someone brought clothes and I dressed Hastily, thinking the spinning might Return. Leaving, I noticed her Hovering, coldly unsympathetic in blue
And starched white and dared to think I would
Prefer her blurred and featureless again.
IVAN WHITS
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