Where are the words
When the air is wet and your hands are cold in your room
Called to be in hibernation for three to four months
The system denies that mammalian softness, as it tears all of us from our natural needs
A candle burning on the slate hearth of my rented room glows like a fire on Sunday
A real day of rest, not for the Lord but for my bones, my soul
Finally a pile of gathered leaves starts to form a garland
In my hands that crave some making
I spend no money
I sit all day
These words only come on the Monday
I wrench myself out of my room
To retrieve am item lost in the back a taxi
Such is disabled life
And I persuade myself to swim while out out
The pool is almost all mine, the grey rainswept lunchtime beckons no one
Bliss emerges in my swim
No mean feat in these times
And here are the words
Remain submerged for as long as you need
The world is here, too
