how strange
the pull of nothing
when nowhere seems so far
and closer still –
the pieces left
of then
folded between pages
margins almost gone –
ink is dried
and fingers
have rubbed thin

the start
of just beginning –
the memory of more
lacey lace
and I don’t know what for
the roads were come
across and down –
through these southern
skies
painted me a somewhere
almost now

. . .