'The lines of the landscape run through me to somewhere else'–Zoe Skoulding
with inspiration from Library of Babel by Jorge Luis Borges
Absent one, with whom I sew stuttered
Scribbles, stitched in buttons on a screen,
I think you have entered my nature library;
The autumn-soft leaves got ruffled
Into beautiful squirly windswept patterns
To blur my still-hardened horizons.
It was later in the library of work,
Getting my threads in order,
I encounter a man called Henry.
Enter Henry, his own threads trailing
At his trainers, a mess of bleached hair
Under a beanie, jeans royal blue and frayed.
Concentrating, I am keen not to cut ties
With what is buzzing in my belly.
Henry's vibe picks up the buzz;
He is falling over himself
With some thread on his phone;
This is what I see, before his face;
And his voice, Somerset and lilting
Says ma'am you wouldn't mind would you?
He can't read and it's a text,
The thread of which I pick up straight away.
What does it say? 'I can't talk now.'
Can you write, please (I am handed the phone)
That I really sorry and I really care,
And why have you cut me off and are you there?
'I don't feel well,' the reply comes.
I sorry for you, I sorry, please answer,
Please let me back home...
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