When she’s not free-floating
she took out the measuring tape
to check the width,
and then used a ruler to
mark it and scissored out
the marbled paper.
As to the length, it’s always
30 centimeters which made
the job easier. She’d lined
all the shelves, rescuing
those wasted chipboards
In between tidying up
she’d pondered the particles of
sunlight, all-embracing, vested in
closed spaces, the weird feeling
it’s all some kind of biography.
Not a single cloud visible.
Day 29. The prompt, not the day. There’s something soothing about keeping things in perfect order. The French has a phrase for it, “mise en scene”, which means roughly the setting or surroundings of an event. It makes living so much more pleasant to have everything in its place. Just like in a novel, setting reflects a character, so in a psychologically real way, how a person’s house is arranged matters as an externalisation of the inner person. But I’m just wondering when things aren’t perfect, does it mean on some real, psychological level you’re in a bit of a mess? I’m only following this train of thought because Robert Brewer wanted a a metrics poem, either a poem written in meter, or referencing some measurement in metric. I’m sure you’d find some genius way to write to the prompt. I hope the poem measures up. Heh.