You think you might have had this one before. It cracks—or grey, or highly blue—it doesn’t shape the day it will unpeel.
No more than half your heart looks sidewise, young unpacking morning, underhum / anxiety with strata / underpin / fatigue with coffee / waking chamber after chamber. The screen will barely tell you any different (nothing, really).
As the shape unbends (hesitant)—(umbrella), points of reference tell you this is, by a whisker, new.
If the calendar’s on standby, then do the days still stride?
If holding still with several birthdays camouflaged in condos, then we’ll all emerge our sprightly selves before the spring.
If we cannot put hands in hands till time has dried our sidewalks, then we do remain, prevailing blossom banking where we dragged our feet and April says to May, we do remain.
Frances Pope is a writer and French-English translator. Originally from the UK, she has been writing and taking part in readings and spoken word events for several years, starting in Brighton in 2009 and continuing in London, in France, and in Montreal where she has lived since 2015. Her work has appeared in Carte Blanche, Asymptote, Québec Reads, L’Organe, and UNAM’s Periódico de Poesía, and is forthcoming in Graphite and Phantom Drift.