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.