Repeat of a refrain,
Made on earth, not of earth
I take stock, stand on stairs
aware/not aware of dust
under my feet as I cast
about for the old music
that is less instant
and has to be worked at
She says things don’t feel right if they’re not worked for.
This verbal snapshot might serve as some kind of motto.
I can’t find the thing I’m looking for. Instead, the yellow
sound of a road sweeper fills the light filtered by the curtain.
I remember a serpent shaped road, a Vauxhall Viva
or Ford Cortina parked outside every Lego brick house.