Edge

The day is splintered – sharp enough
for argument.
Hands clench, fingers threaded. Though the curtains
are closed, it’s clear the light is winter’s.
Matchsticks drop down floorboards – the gaps
are wide, unfilled, asking for it.
Softened wax fills my ears – still
the voices never cease.
There’s room behind me on the chair – I
only need the very edge to sit on.

from ‘The beating of wings’ (Hearing Eye 2006)