GRACE MCQUILTEN
Poetry—'Untitled'
      

This is familiar.

Your madness
crawls
up
the back
             of my back.

So I sink in ideas.

You are climbing
               still
the blood on your knuckles
a clumsy proof.

I cannot picture you.
My mind is a cluttered house.
                      It is not
                      full
                      of you.
Words are noise, comfort.
The stereo is broken – relief.

You are wordless
               fading.

I am home.
That is all.