Clapham Junction

A bad thing happens fast. I can’t recall
the order. Can’t grab handrail. Skull slaps stone.
Quiet precise twig snap of some small bone.
Foot slips from edge of step. Dizzy. I fall.

Blood on my shirt, and in my eyes and hair.
Bag broken open, the sollicitude
of passing strangers. Others though are rude
step over me, resent my being there

Fear going round would make them miss their train.
Pain and confusion. This is why we say
we fall in love, our heart good sense betray
and down we go. A stumble in the brain

that leaves a scar. Love trips our feet. We break
our bones. Love gives a sweetness to the ache.

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About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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