Of all the things I lost
Under my bed,
Does this quiet snail have to emerge?
That question is yellow and quite rhetorical.
Why is it,
That all the things I lost
Are under my bed
And you are at the very back, squashed between Shakespeare’s As You Like It and the guitar I never learnt to play?
That question is a puddle.
Make the bed flat again
Turning corners and
Catching and squeezing like putty
lost and slippery things I’ve forgotten
The ones that illude, dodging over edges, now nothing, I slip a finger on them and it comes back gold dust but the bedcover is smooth and I cannot remember their faces?
That question is….
Prompt from dVerse, questions!