How can I remember my future
when my past has been gravely misspelt—
with all the hasty gerunds
and coarse-grained adjectives
serving no purpose
other than ornament—
and even rain has lost its subsumption
in such an unconceivable milieu,
so that when I entertain the idea
of using the vested Pooterish umbrella,
I always have to consider the wistfulness
of the draught?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
… when playing mornings, how easy it is
to confuse a tuning fork with a piano
or Die Zwitscher-Maschine drawing silence.
Mr Honk’s hand hesitated for a moment
as he put a period after the closing sentence
of the belated valedictory obituary
clacked out on one of the inherited typewriters—
he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was
a ninny with impostor syndrome,
like his maisonette that had everything
but the essential furniture.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
hidden pilcrow 