Written months ago, but I just got around to posting.
Here's to the taste
of a cigarette I never smoked
and of a drink I didn't
and of the fruit you ate on the way.
To the bruise on my knee
and the dust
and the cold cement floor.
Here's to descending
below the tumult
into the upper deep,
to voices muffled
by a floor over our heads
and heeled footsteps
speaking above us in code.
Here's to the length
of this house, its depth,
its hiddenness.
Here's to cracks
in the foundation, and where do they go?
All the way,
through the centre of the earth
where it's too hot for words.
Place your palm on a weaker point,
and wait for the heat,
though you may be imagining this.
Nevertheless.
Here's to leaving
my mind behind, on the surface,
when I opened a door.
Here's to stairs
to the cellar
that only ever go down.
Here's to going down.
Here's to the New Year
and the taste of a cigarette.
