my mother says:

you have pretended to be a person
for too long now
it is time to come home.

i turn to her
(my inside outside and
silver as the moon)

and I say: how ?

and she says this:

Follow my Finger

it comes at me sometimes in snatches
a song drifting in the air
the air across my skin – exquisite
a scent so fine it makes me stop
when i’m on my bicycle say
wending through the belchblack traffic
and life drapes loose about my shoulders
loose enough, slight enough that i forget it’s there
it’s then these pieces come
each one part of a puzzle
so familiar it’s written on my bones
but I have lost the box with the picture on it
and i’m tired now and can’t remember
but it comes at me, sometimes, in snatches
fragments of remembering
says kindly: and this one, and this one too, remember?
like last night’s dream i can’t quite complete it
the picture of my life

when my pen gets close to the point
which i admit is rarely
my heart races
i am drawn
helpless
water down the plug
into the centre of things
desperate
oblivion
home

inside John Steineck
nearly 100 years ago
the sun sets somewhere in Wales
cuts itself on the sharp of a mountain
sinks bleeding
here though over Delhi
the sun sets smiling
sinks happy job done
beneath the whole of life
puts to bed sighing
the fat man beside the road
choking on the traffic both arms in the air
turning slowly
he’s getting measured for a new suit
the woman in the scarf shop
young, beautiful, forever smiling
dead at 27 leaving here a son
the dog with its smiling face deep in a bucket of milk
the soft cows
the birthings and the dyings
the endless, careless carings
the one for the other
the right hand for the left
she puts to rest the sweet sweet scoundrels
and the colours of their schemes
for yet another day

so i stand here still and i say:
write me home
moving across landscape
moving in lightness
in direction none-in-particular
and i am laughing

swallow tastes swimming pool
blue as nearly as the sky
pool bird its heart skip beats a bloody red
and the parts i have been missing lie
scattered loose on loungers
brown as nuts beneath the tree
warm as wishes from the sun
butterflies fighting or loving
same same
today
it might be that I know paradise