I imagined she would go on a ski holiday in Switzerland
As glamorous as my imagination could afford
The type in which Italian ladies wear sunglasses
and sip on wounded gin in the shadow of a feather canopy
a slight breeze, wind machine, side lighting provided by the water
the sun lying low and the rum raw and gold drifting by the percussion rattling
the winter afternoon in the islands, no tourists to hide the wonders
the ways in which mothers teach their children to dance and stay warm
the cafés no longer use English and the rats know it is safer co-existing
and the music is based on the myths the people are vexed by
the wave in the air crashes like coffee beans in a grinder
the weird way in which rivers turn only later to decide
suddenly those rules simply no longer applied
I imagined she was having a different dilemma to me
the webs around buildings left by poisonous ivy
the baleful way trees pulse and sag
under the malign influence of that slow drag
the sticky fingers of wind that curl around trees
and then pull them to the ground
grinding away both knees
These feelings I believe are found in the box marked
“do not open box” for inside it are bits of the clocks
ensnared with gold particles so minute and coherent
they slip through space time intact the rare looks
they get, do not give back