I read about a man in medieval China
who set himself the task of breeding the most beautiful goldfish for
some chick
painfully above his station. That's the way stories work,
and I didn't read the end because it was in a book in a bookstore
and I had to go to class. But I thought about it on the way.
And when a papery blonde woman lectured about
Croce and his hard-on for history
I wrote neat dot points in my exercise book.
What goldfish?
How many generations?
What colour?
How long and how many frail fleshless goldfish fry
had to die?
When did he know he was finished and
did the goldfish know
his twisted, slow, ungainly
body was moulded as a noble gesture?
I understand that's the way love works, and,
sometimes I think about the chick and the man but
mostly
I wonder about the goldfish.

I scald my hand spilling tea
on the bedsheets then
groan at the injustice dripping
with dissolved ink
from my bedside to do lists, cold tea
pooling around the stack of books,
two remote controls &
an alarm clock not worth mentioning.

I'm in bed alone tonight.
The cup leaves round wet stains
on the quilt cover when I rest it there.
There are fifteen versions
galloping before me
to tomorrow and yesterday
rippling away from here
in neat concentric circles.

Be clever.
Be obscure.

There is dirt under my fingernails
and the washing machien is
mumbling at the same load
for the second time.
I'm expected to have
these things finished.
O Lord, put me to bed.