As settled as the cobwebs in its hallway
As much of the fabric as Neruda’s books on love
Or the songs of Norah Jones on the stereo
Might the flames of the fire flicker as I hold my breath
As warm as your comforting conversations
As joyous as that night of red wine and dancing
Or the studied view of the girl with pearl earring
Might the clock that doesn’t tick count down my hours
As regular as the morning light through the window
As repetitive as the flowers on the floral curtains
Or the words on the mantelpiece’s greeting cards
Might the ceiling and the alcoves be rectangular for a purpose
As if the straight lines should offer some guidance
As if the lack of symmetry should play its own joke
Or be a template for the chair and leather settee
Might rearranged bookshelves match my own sense of tidiness
As I remember to vacuum the carpet & polish the table
As I dust the perspex where once there was a long playing record
Where we used a industrial cleaning machine after the riotous party
Might the boxes of CDs be sorted and filed at random
As I scatter my own thoughts onto their echoes
As I am returned, to monasteries and dance-halls
Whispered to by the poets of your land & of Ireland
Cut It - Love of Perfumed Grains of Dust
