you sense that the world might still
be picking out an axis upon which
to turn, considering at which angle
to incline itself towards the sun,
perhaps even whether to settle at
this point in the order of things,
or go for somewhere just a little hotter,
just a little cooler. Nothing feels fixed.
Each breath – on its individual journey
towards the ear – is making up its mind.
So can you – on a rainy Friday night
– leave the flesh wounds of another
working week at the threshold, take a
seat over there in the corner, accept
that business is being taken care of?
Robert Ford’s poetry has appeared in a number of print and online publications, including The Interpreter’s House, Brittle Star, Butcher’s Dog and San Pedro River Review. He is a member of The Brewery Poets in Kendal, England. More of his work can be found at https://wezzlehead.wordpress.com.