What days we’re having now, with no vanishing point
and time like fat snakes rubbing against our ankles,
where I can feel the breeze and know myself.
In days I find my limits, a coral reef with fuzzy life.
How terrible it must be to have opinions
when so much is fresh conjecture.
Let’s say I wake up inside a morning, wanting to be
more than table silence, to hold a friend’s apple heart.
Shade reaches through the basement of my head.
I keep to alleyways, the rumbling cats. So often toast
is just warm bread, when it could be so hopeful.
There are no unknown fears.
I’m watching horizon variations, remembering
the horses and their complicated horse lives,
their shoes nailed on.
Days become a series of rooms. Wherever I sleep
a man is at my window. He tells me of days to come,
my calendar of question marks.
Alex MacDonald‘s work has been published in the Best British Poetry 2015, Poetry London and The Rialto. He received an Eric Gregory Award from the Society of Authors in 2016. His debut pamphlet, Knowing This Has Changed My Ending, is out from Offord Road Books in August 2018.