OK, it's been the week from hell, but I won't go into details. A 4am phone call didn't help. Farewells of various kinds. Stuff that needed completing.
So, just one poem.
Looking at you
Space runs over space stuck up with paste
Brown paste and through it the silver
Lines grate with gear, circumstances
Us all crowd, us all not know but
Space between the yellow line
As too soon and too far before
Dawn the house creaks out of slack
Sleep as if what is that? Still
Question of corners last night
How could I ever? Coming home
And on this very morn, tired, vapour
Cragging down mournful old steps
Tagging to work, grumble, coffay
Space that is grit, that is turned
Where would I land? Not space
Here where street crowd gander gait
Between, that small space
The only quieting space
Silver sleep circumstance awake.