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The Tulip Skirt

I woke up this morning
And thought,’ I am lost.’
There was a thin crack of light
Through the wooden doors
An orange glow where the wood had split;
The sun on the Grand Canyon.

I am overwhelmed by geography
(gave it up in the third form)
afraid of the call of a spinning world.
Now the sound of pee splashing on plastic
(this despised commode)
is a stream in Moulin – I remember it clearly,
the water ice cold and up to my calves.
Laughter.

This hole in the wall
With its French doors
And a sliver of light
Opens onto a space that is all that
I know now – a museum of artefacts
Bequeathed by others – my favourites are
An aboriginal dreamscape and my daughter’s
Lovely smile gracing the Pacific ocean.

These days Foucault is filed on top of
The Next catalogue - I was researching the history
Of madness but got waylaid by the thought
Of a tulip skirt and the debate as to whether
One would be daft to wear such a thing
When approaching fifty five.