Seven years since the swimming accident and not
a day different – except the fuss dissolved.

In a high tide the event explodes, vomiting jetsam
over innocents who listen.

There is breath in this body, but the home in my head
lies ransacked. On a lost edge, I live in external time

skating on ice, scratching the spot. Learning to
scramble across stepping stones, which

pop above a low spring tide of feeling,
avoiding the spaces of deepening loss.

So, I look for a projected future –
re-grinding the lens using toughened glass.

Tomorrow, I’ll dwell in that space, but for now
Christ, how do I organise chaos?