does not seem like how
it should be, and the past
feels less like history but
just story.

a lightness, neither bearable
nor not, creeps in, seeps up
between toes and under
finger nails.

colourless cardboard masks
sit stale where used to sing
and shine and fly
with future fantasy.

fine is all it is, now; staid and
bland and out of mind and not so
hard to find, but easy to
ignore.