After “Of Mutability” by Jo Shapcott.

The trees are beginning to lose their ochre

milk teeth again and the clock in the clogged

artery of High Street reminds me I ought to go

home soon but I think I’d rather wait a little

longer. It seems the older I get, the more I

catch myself thinking in these solitary

moments of the accelerated speed at which

my cells will start dying with each passing

second and it’s true, while I’m hesitant

to admit, that I’m starting to grow frightened.


Perhaps for no reason but that’s yet to be

seen and I don’t know how I’m already

approaching eighteen when the woman I am

told I will someday become is still two parts

hypothesis and one part certain. But it’s best

not to dwell for being alone with my thoughts

tends to breed only melancholic confession

and I don’t want to trouble these impasto clouds

I’ve confided in this evening any more

than I already have. I would turn back,

if it were that easy.


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