Here’s a poem from my upcoming poetry and essay collection Waking up to Thrutopia.
The book of sort of okayness
After Fran Lock and Tsoknyi Rinpoche
In winter coastal skies are powder and mollified. Here, sand
cliffs, a tramcar’s white zoom, seagulls, flags,
a north wind that slaps cheeks with a sole and leaves
salt on lips. Cut off from the dog parade, where
ruddy turnstones scatter as if let go out of a bottle. On days like these
misfortune meets us waspish and thin. We are seven-hour flowers, waiting
for the shadow to wintle from the cloudless sky like serein.
But it’s more than Hypnos that keeps us tied to our beds,
a sadness set deep in days, sends us browsing for a vibe
shift. Away from minds that run on rails, buckled to overhead
wires, same stitched and padded coats, opinions arranged neatly in rows.
The pilea by the window needs a stick and some yarn to stay upright, and
its round leaves yearn towards the low light. Could this offshoot
drop into its body, could we drop into our bodies and find an ember.
Because its not enough to reside in the white room, where thoughts waft
like ghosts until a comforter of snow weighs them down and covers them.
Could we start to write the book of sort of okayness, fill the pages with more
than asemic writing, a guide of sorts for everyone who struggles, so everyone.
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