At some point
he moved into
the attic of himself
taking a sliver
of a broken mirror
some string a
knife and a torch
leaving a framed
photograph of himself
centre-squared
on the living room wall
facing the
window where the world carried on
in the photo he
was twenty-one face fair
undefeated in good bodily health
with all to come
and still to be done so there
in the poor
soothing light of the loft
he would angle
to catch the soft dregs of sunshine
he would measure
the reduction of shadows
in knotted
lengths slicing through time
he would
illuminate the rucked surface of dark corners
the seduction of
how crooked timber lies
and he would
remember nothing straight
still seeing through
a young man’s eyes
the beauty
cornered startled
the fear the hate
