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.
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.