Imagine this room,
stain on the dark wooden floor
hole where the gas line ran
where I sat up worried
I’d killed everyone.

A room wet with guilt
a shrine to ignorance
and naivety,
a manger of pain.

This room changed
but remained the same.
When I kept falling down
it made the same crash.
When I returned,
it was for sewing-
(Nothing else really)


My feet creak the floor

boards giving under the weight

of years, or under my shadow-



both mixed.

No shadow of turning.


Dave Barber

15 Nov 08

Upcoming Book:  Don’t ask those questions