Books Magazine

The Minutes

By Williamwatkin @wwatkinbrunel
Tarkovksy’s ‘Mirror’ won’t leave me alone,images unendurably sad.For minutes I can’t be held to account.Email can’t reach me, devices go blank.The rain outside a tautology.My shit stinks and I do not want to dieyet immortality is not my thing.The dog in sorrow nuzzles a ballwhose deflation is irresistible. My son stirs in his sleep clasped to my arm.My daughter’s silence, symbolism’s shame.My wife drives alone through a northern night,and sometimes when I’m coming home from work,bundles of mist suspended like pale fishin waters implausibly dark and clearare snagged in the lure of my light and drown. If I am not able, if I am not able,if I am not able to put in wordsall that you recount of that gay siegethat childhood laid at your pantry doorforgive me, I do not take dictation. As I read my lips are seen to move,as I move my limbs are dangled on a string.I wonder what’s on breath’s nether side.A gravel crunch sound-at-the-door key twist.The surface clouds and the barking dogs.You’re home and yet no one asked you to leave. I’m lost in a cloud that is torn by fire.If he does not come now he never will,If he does not come…we are waiting still. 

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