The poem was waiting,
simmering gently beneath work deadlines
and plans for the weekend.
Lurking way back beneath the bones and simple things,
waiting for the moment,
the right moment to present itself.
At which point
it falls awkwardly into my mind,
an assorted array of images
feelings translated and pictures of head stuff.
wording with no obvious order or arrangement-
a bowl of big flakes,
to be squeezed from my weeping fingertips,
smeared to a page
and given a title-