Wednesday, 29 February 2012

Bound/Take off

It’s isn’t real, it’s just
a feeling in this town that
I am bound, like
the feet of a Chinese courtesan, like
old tomes to their spines:
rare and old and unthumbed.

I am tired of the library backroom,
the smell of sawdust, frayed string
and patches of wool, the smell of
tea leaves powdered to dust.

I am longing for the pfft.

To be ripped and folded,
crease to the ceiling.
To be launched.

A paper airplane
cresting above their heads,
out the window, past
the stooped man on the
accordion corner,
past the bakery window,
past the bridges,

swooping with exhaled air
beneath my wingtips
and gasps—I’m ready
to crashland the canal.

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