Funny Peculiar

Mark Ford

I sit down here drinking hemlock
While terrible things go on upstaris.

Sweat creeps like moss outward to the palms,
And time itself now seems a strange, gauze-like medium.

Sleep will leave still newer scars each night, or,
Infuriatingly, is a curtain that refuses to close.

On the horizon, bizarre consolations make themselves
Known – a full fridge, a silent telephone,

The television quiet in its corner.
Everything and nothing have become a circular

Geometrical figure, seamlessly joined,
To be wrestled innocently this way and that

Into the most peculiar almost whimsical shapes.