It begins with the clean laundry dumped on her bed
like something menacing, a heap of
colour and cut and size.
She feels the need to burn something,
watch it shrivel up. Imagines torrential rain
in the streets of Shanghai and
how it feels to be hit in the face with
sheer grandeur, crass and unrelenting
like the lights that spill from window-mouths.
Unceasing traffic, background noise in
nerve signals. Screaming for attention.
There are photographs on the piano and
tomorrow's bread on the table, past and future
kept separate for convenience. It would be nice
if today did not require the will to live for tomorrow.
If life lent itself to easy classification (like the clothes pile
making its transition from chaos to order) –
black from white, friend from enemy, clean from dirty.
(I've had enough of this place.)