Fucking Hell – Isaac Meredith

December 3, 2025

Thereafter I was something sadder
than water (which I was before),
horizontal, heavy and mechanical
as a truck and silhouetted –
the trees, which understood, did not
dispense with their knowledge, which
was leaves. Forgetting is funny
because you eventually forget
what it was you were forgetting, only
realising the process, which right now
is happening. Coming up ahead,
a vagrant with a curved blade with
old brown bloodstains. A rough-hewn
romance in a bank, bound not to last.
The sudden inclusion of a new element
would sure be interesting, but so often
I find it’s that old wound, or the weather,
which thrills, threatens change, changes
so as to destroy. At least now I will talk
to no-one: so I can watch them
and think, in a high-up way,
thinking these balloons you see.

—

Snow

The pressure of everything gathers on the landscape until it makes it impossible.
A trustworthy person in warm clothes in view of a small window, walking towards it.
Old cars with paperbacks on their sleeping faces, liable to fall off.
Your voice doesn’t travel far, as though it were running across wet sand:
it gives up.

Body close to yours.
Phone wakes: blue light, then black again on the bedside cabinet.

I know, I know, I know.
The white hands are beginning to accumulate.