In the bathroom in Quarter Light

Albescent now and at peace, I smile at the papers -
Slowly curling,
her toes in Quarter Light. And hand after hand,
like a pen to the leaseless I try and remove the living leaves.

Deposits of all kinds, off white and ill formed,
alluvial documents on the tiling or behind,
or papers left imagined, between rafters for generations
or the next tenant’s arrival or the next.

But then a change of tune
And the chisel and scree
As I hammer out an intent to make something.

Of this alabaster and ointment.

Nick Dockerty

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