Scene 1: In the hallway

             — tin pink flower heads
on green stick stalks, fifty million
             round the light switch. Above a doorway
second right, an arch, revealed 
             whilst decorating; a  recess
not quite big enough. A fallen coat seeding
             fluff and coppers, dribs of tissue, a pocket
reminder — soap, nappies, a trivial   
             box of matches; a reversible garment
                          waterproofed
                                       on one side.

            Encumbered she checks, tries
to make haste, to leave, to leave behind, a look . . .
             bemuse/behold/bewilder . . .inkling
of an elsewhere mind, all knowledge
            erased. She with the eyes in the back of her head — call it
intuition . . . call it, summons it . . .standing
            halfway along the hallway, that place
of passages, facing out, no intention
            to take a different route; an innocent. . .  follow her,
follow, as small piles reassemble
            on each stair, fronds recoil, water
inverts, sucked up the drainpipe: the bed’s
            unmaking, retractable
                        like a metal rule, a dragon’s
                                       intake of fire.

                        A knowing wall, a window’s
            back and future — a slice
                        down the middle. So many
changes of clothing, a fringe snipped so many times. There she goes . . .
            with an open heart — a figment, chewing
on liquorice comfort: fortnightly
            the insurance man calls, milkman Thursdays, savings
in the post office, green shield stamps — taut like elastic
            ready to fire. Forwards
                        to go back, to end up
            wrong footed (heels or flats?) — a question
                        of where the weight falls,
                                    hindsight,
                                                heretofore . . . 

             a small occasion, at the rate
                        a finger nail grows, a scar
takes to fade, the skin’s response to a too hot handle
            cools under running water.  Inborn. Towards
creation — back and back and back
            to the day a mirror fell from a wall
above a hearth and a mantel onto a rug where
            all childhood played — but she’d gone hadn’t she,
in that split crescendo, to answer
            the call of a neighbour; familiarity
in the back streets, tar in the gutter . . . from whence she came . . .
            Behind each front door, a hallway
                        lengthens towards another —
                                    previous, persistent,
                                                lingering.