Counting the Swans
I would change nothing.
Not the red beaks
or the black feathers;
not the noise of the freeway,
or the outreach of trees.
But I do not have time. . .
Small deaths fill my hours,
give their shape to my days.
Dead tongues lick my ears.
And I am counting the swans
in the Lake Monger carpark
counting my hours
in the Lake Monger carpark
red beaks and black feathers
in the Lake Monger carpark
and the dampness of places
I do not have time for;
and I do not have time.
