against the grain
Thirteen or fourteen years old & lost in February. Full of energy but never knew what to do. Go to the canal, go down the fields, always looking for some way of saying the thing you don’t know what it is, pulled & pushed everywhere by the dry cold wind. Distraught with the beauty of frozen stuff, also thin dust chipped with hail. Towpaths, cigarette smoke, a blonde aunt, hundreds of contemporary poems ripped whole from the school library, a bleached canvas curtain across an outside door. How do you know what to say before you know how to say it ? Why does everyone who says anything say it better than you ?