Beginnings of Poetry

Because the tangerine floor,
trap door, closed entrance.
Because of solitary rooms and a love of the hermetic.
Because of bullying.
Because it was never forced or encouraged.
Because of art school’s salient critique.
Because loud and garrulous.
Because the throes of images.
Book after book.
Because New Orleans, Dominican Republic, Horseshoe Bay.
Because early internet; insomnia.
Because the Free Times Café.
Because of momentary angels, accidental lightning.
Because of fallen matchsticks, cigarette ash and morning breath.
Orange-red afterglow.
Because of music’s cruel abandonment at concert’s end.
Because it is more elegant to wend desire through symbol.
Because language invents me: the pulse of throat, tickle of heart.
Because corrosion happens.
Avalanche, blackouts,
words in braille.
Because Pluto was demoted from planet.
Because the cosmic microwave background.
Because photons dance off my palms
past the fry pan.
Because eating a double chocolate scoop of the universe, whole.
Because I coalesce, then contradict.
Too small to fit inside the seasons.
Because the harbour turned me away.
Because of eyes dipped in silver, watching over the bedside table.
Because loss.
Because hearing.
Because essential to abrade surface.
Because tenacious near death, hovering above my body.
Because of surgery.
Night-blue buses.
Because the twist.

Copyright © Clara Blackwood 2013

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