Before it slips by, like a solstice,
make notes from all these everyday
innovations: the better form
for holding to the body of
a broom, the spot where if you kneel
and bow the sun will lay a stripe
across your neck, the apple smell
of cleaning products, reasonably priced,
the possibility of morning walks,
the courage not to buy even wine
for cooking with, a cleaner way
for getting news, a standing desk
that really works, a sharper ear for birds,
a dozen speedful shortcut keys,
communion with the skin of glass,
new words to call your favourite shades
of sky, now-not-undiscovered means
for making art on countertops,
all the thousands of breaths reaching
a little deeper—if not deep enough
to scoop the tar out of your lungs then hot
enough to melt the surface into gloss
and frighten some shine from the dark.
Header photograph © Marybeth Cohowicz DeYoung.
Joshua Clayton holds an MPhil in English from the University of Bristol and currently lives in London. His poetry has recently appeared in Cagibi, Antiphon, and Gigantic Sequins.
“frighten some shine from the dark.” Holy Cow what a line.