I am struck by how blue the morning light is on the paper of the photograph, and conversely how yellow the artificial light is in an nightime photo or pink in an afternoon fadelight. Drain was my absolute least favourite word so far, so I wrote about time — corse I did, all poems are about time.
I couldn’t write about your drain
All its words are stunk and dank
Its rats are beginning to gnaw at me.
another kind of happiness 