Tuesday 3rd May 2011, A. Palmer
Quick, there's that star that looks like our rotten egg-blue again.
The cloud in front has returned to his seat,
and we've been given a good view again.
I didn't see you'd left your eyes at your feet.
Which is why I didn't know you'd stood in the quicksand-
I'd gone first up the ladder and assumed that you'd followed.
Why didn't you say anything as you sank like bricks and
why were you dribbling? You hadn't even swallowed,
let alone called out for help, and now the excess enzymes
your mouth had worked around the clock to get out
were making a break for it down your cocktail dress in limes.
The fen wasn't going to claim those, I had no doubt.
All of a sudden, all this time I'd been bogged down with answers
to questions I hadn't tried to understand.
Like what was before? What were the chances?
And could I truly discount an invisible Hand?
It's a good a theory as any, what take are we on here?
Can't be the first time, or at least I hope not,
because then we'll know how to rebuild it all in a few years,
when the sun decides that's it and murders the fucking lot.
That's when I'd looked back at you, and it hit me from the East,
that you are precious and I hoped find you again in the remake.
We're just blips in time, but we're that at least,
so let's leave the forces to themselves, I fancy a milkshake.
I snapped my ladder and you grabbed hold of my wood.
You fused splinters but left them in like mine.
The cloud stood up to watch us leave and the egg was gone for good.
I didn't mind, my star was beside me in a quagmire brine,
nearly lost but found all the more for it.
I walked it home, holding its peppered hand,
and it squeezed mine tightly, still wordless, though it winced a bit,
and I left my questions in the quicksand.