You must have been
A great thinker
And a great
Great dreamer
Just by the
Way
You stretched out
Your sentences
Across the page
And
Sometimes forgot
To place commas
For page after page.
But whether
Upon looking
Into the
Pieces
The meanings are as
Deep
As you think
There is
On whether
It was a fluke
Or an accident
I am unsure.

Lines like
‘Rain fell on the curve’
Carry so much
Power
But it leaves
You wondering
How does it sound
Rain falling on a curve
Does the sound
Change from the way
It normally falls.

Does the sound
The feel change?

Would it still brush
Onto my cheek gently
Or would the feel
(and the taste)
Turn more harsh
Like sour pears?

Would the sky still
Be purple
On a Bolton-lit sky
In late February
As I walked down
Bradford Street
Where I watched
An old, old woman
Stagger from
One building to
The next.

Would you have written
It as flowery
And complex
Or would you write
It like me

And look at the grey
Buildings
Covered by the rain
Whic was falling down
From the sky
Like what I originally
Thought was like bullets
But then I thought
Was something more
Harsh
If imaginable.

Would you have looked
At the woman
Who was dressed
In faded purple
And shoes
With heels
That were worn
And certainly out
Of shape
And written about her
Ignoring her obvious
Distress
And even confusion.

I can see her
Crying with great distress,
Mumbling words
Under your breath
Which only
Half make sense.

I can hear a
Name,
Perhaps someone
They once loved
Or knew
But which
Now
It looks like
You had even forgotten
What it once
Meant to them.