This fatuous effort in watercolours
and ash trays from Istanbul
while an aimless afternoon
writes up its expressionless chronicle.
We know it already: words tend
to fall away quickly, even though
there’s been an improvement of mood
and the silence of arterial pressure.
The reality of a glass and its bouquet
floating in sylvan waters is painless,
it would be better to forget.
April sun on the house plants,
recurring imagery, empty cups of tea.
If living is holding back the fall of a leaf
dying is falling into a bucket of cold water.