So to floor coverings and the incipient onomatopoeias
of sea-grass and linoleum. Here are feet
that pad across cushion-floor,
sunk deep in thoughts of Veronique.
Would that socks had a greater capacity to console.
I could mooch to some purpose
beyond the range of the echoic gong or resonating bell.
Next a vase, ulterior with curve,
then to kitchenette and our peregrinations
find their own end. Attempting perspective,
I lift the perspex filter jug, pour a tall glass
of the old stuff, take a short, hard pull.
It all becomes clear to me, then not.