I return home, tried,
my face pressed against the window
of expectation . I climb the steps
to my f lat, only to trip over the mat
Outside the door. The key
goes to sleep in my palm.
I fear I have bungled again.
That last refinement of speech
terrifies me. The balloon.
Of poetry has grown red in the face
with repeated blowing. For scriptures
I, therefore, recommend
the humble newspaper: I find
My prayers occasionally answered there.
I shall, perhaps, go on.
Like this, unmindful of day
melting into the night.
My heart I have turned inside out.
