If I could circumnavigate the problem.
My eyes would amongst obscurity of the forest fell
- rush through the shadows puppetry pine needles and leaf fronds
Out of focus, rambling forward, the squid ink syllables would grip the glare of page and white space.
Invoking a trace of loss.
I would breathe the gulp of absinthe within my tide filled bronchus.
Under this full lunar time.
I would film stars in pylons shooting the lethargy of parabolic light to relieve your inertia.
I would play the hum of lament, a fiddle and an opera voiced image - harp plucked across no melody.
May the white wind dance, may the fiddlers footing show her.
May the rhetoric seethe.
If I could circumnavigate the crowds into my own empty auditorium.
I would hold all I love inside my belly tightly,
where no daggers could gleam, or,
release a whispered cessation of argument unheard by apron strings or empty kitchens.
If I could envelope all thought into page - lost by tactile velvet – remain.
Show your dot to dot freckles, hold up your crystalline salted cheeks and drying eyes.
Pause the heart race and beat, and break the semi-quavered lip that lacks voice and directional breath
Let a multitude and verisimilitude of coloured paint drip over my visage.
Rip up your bed and catapult the springs, safe from a lack of what cannot be dreamt.
Only infinite footsteps would be heard, this heather-lined pictorial that spans capacity.
If I could circumnavigate the problem,
I would see from all angles I cannot reach.
If I could circumnavigate the problem.
I would write clearly.
And speak back the enunciated gasp of life.
I could circumnavigate.
If.
The problem, was my own.
Naomi Heath 