Another Blind Moment

Standing in a train is sometimes like standing in a wardrobe full of old clothes. The train is crowded. Someone sitting down wont give you space because they are leaning forwards for the duration gazing emptily into their new mobile like a lover into the loved ones eyes. I stare down at my shoes, the edges of coats visible, this is real, you can’t deny it; the city passes flaring below in endless need of mending. So I begin to think of how when I was a child the problem of beauty plagued me. That I both was and was not in a beautiful world. That plague is still there. The sparkle of perfection like snow on the eroded discoloured stone of a garden wall was too brief.