I am stealing time to share this with you.
Today some po-books arrived. One by Jo Shapcott (Of Mutability) who our UK friends will know.
In a poem called Somewhat Unravelled, I found this wonderful series of metaphors.
(...) She says, nurse told me I
should furniture walk around the house, holding on to it.
I say, little auntie you are a plump armchair
in flight, a kitchen table on a difficult hike without boots,
you do the sideboard crawl like no one else, you are a sofa
rumba, you go to sleep like a rug. (...)
It ends with a dead metaphor that the preceding revived.
(...) and we'll follow the sun
with our faces until the cows come home.
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