Every single room has you still moving in.
Is that old life there the new life here?
Boxes half block out a whole passage to invention.
The door to the cellar gapes open at our feet.
It provides a glimpse into one man’s underworld,
largely empty at present but warning
of thwarted life. At ground level, details of the “you”
you chose/choose to be: a computer screen like a TV
stacked with topical icons; a monumental drum-kit —
this occupies the living room, and inhabits a rhythm
that can never let go, rapping out questions
in search of a sound track, exactly
shaped like the hook you wield to ease down neatly
out of the ceiling the ingenious wooden step-way
up to the attic — inspired afterthought
straight off the top of your head. Gingerly we climb aboard,
neighbours to the clouds, the room egg-whitened with light.
Through the windows, yellowing dense phalaris
and belladonna lilies — February’s pink “naked ladies”.
On one wide wall, our motto’s inscribed in essential black letters:
I’VE NEVER DONE THIS MOMENT BEFORE.