Dear Tracy

There’s no change:
this room backing railway track,
sooty viaduct shading tangle –
deep-thorned bramble…
it’s not a path to Sleeping Beauty,

the sagging curtain, naked
lightbulb, bed unmade, a life’s detritus…
not a work of art for Saatchi.
In stale air, shadows rumble –
pit of mattress, pit of stomach,
hollow cheek and wide eye.
Night carriages pulse the line,
dark veins, nerve endings,
a skeleton mesh, in skin, of leaf, on land.

And this, (in case you didn’t know)
behind the beauty of imperfection,
nothing, no – disturbed dust, that name
scratched in red brick a hand’s span ago.

© Caroline Fox Betts 2010

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