Making Up Reality
Wild joy filled me,
but I don't know why;
perhaps it was
the young woman
I imagined,
picking up discarded clothes
in the bathroom
with her skinny hands,
her hair loose, falling over her eyes.
She pulled the bathroom plug
and cleaned the ring
with a long-handled brush.
She mumbled a song to herself
and got up from her knees
with a small grunt.
She was wearing a bra
that pinched a little on the left.
I liked the way her eyes
turned the colour of whisky
when she looked into the light.
Outside the door
there was nothing;
not even the vacuum of space –
she hadn't imagined it yet.
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