Right Angles with Myself
On days like this, the world is so clear
that it cuts my eyes. The sky's
a relentless acre of blue.
On the other side of the street
the sun shrieks at me, reflected
off a chance window-pane.
My eyes are blunted by it.
All the lines so stark, as if cut
by a diamond. I can see
each shadow, each splinter of snow
and the empty windows
stare back, all right angles
whose precision wounds me.
On days like this the outside world
stabs me with its sharp corners.
Its uncomplicated sky
reminds me of the jumble,
the crumbling softness,
the layers of dirt and darkness
that nestle inside me.
If you have any comments on this poem, Sara Norja would be
pleased to hear them.