by Luke Otley

Elle est pour moi
comes over fast gypsy style steel guitar,
Leo whistles in the kitchen
light falls from the strange ceiling porthole
Elle est pour moi
he repeats himself
as he finds a spoon–
How long have I been here,
was I reading
or just trying to find
patterns in the ink,
what did I see in this jaundiced page,
was I somewhere else?

I get up
and reality rushes in
the form of diamonds and blood
behind my poor blind eyes,
sorry, I should have known,
I promise myself as
I turn the corner and
the back door’s open
the hot daylight’s inside
the insect screen shade rugs
the floor and
tight in my right hand
the frame of the door
holds up the walls.