Mirrors In Switzerland

O a mirror! The delights thereof! Thanks to it everyone knows precisely what they look like, and have no idea who they are. And why should they, when they define themselves by their glass twin?

Mirror
I can stare at your bambi brown,
and return to my base coordinates;
stare at spiderweb capillaries
made from something strong enough
to keep the thoughts in-

I can't help but want for rain
to water me, and let me
grow roots. Then
I could have all the secrets spring up
around it, like mushrooms
in the bark:
there's magic in them.
Like when you listen to tears
and turn your world into a singing carousel;
or who you are when the chips are down and burried-

We spend our days staring at each other
centimeter glass and one dimension away from another
who we wish would know herself better.

Tonight back to merry london and my blue. I have done what I came to do,found and secured my job, which now I desperately need having lost many pennies missing many flights and being caught travelling black (swissism for being on public transport without a ticket).

The weather was the moodiest part of the trip, one second shining and smiling, the next thunderous. Although I know more than I did before about weather; walking through thunder and rain in skimpy sandals when it's warm can feel like holding your feet into an angry sea. It's quite beautiful really, the arrogant resilience of it. I think if it could only wipe Switzerland clean of it's people then this country and I could be very good friends. It was lovely watching it in the sunny rain. The light shone through the drops and lit them up like prisms. It looked as if God was sending us diamonds. It looked as if he might exist. There was a man with down syndrom sitting on a bench playing "My heart will go on" on a flute in front of a tent containing some art by the Bahnhof. A little kinder egg surprise of art in the middle of the city to watch, from my secret park&-green-tea perch. Like I said, Switzerland and I could be very good friends.

I even know it well by now: all it's public buildings smell the same- of stern authority and bleach- and flowers decorate every remote tram station in their pots. Sometimes it's quite unsettling to see them there so purposefully. They seem important signs somehow; flowers to commerate the dead. The suicides. There are many of them littering the tracks here.

But I like to think that they are there for all the people who wander their sterile streets thought-screaming "JUST FUCKING LOVE ME" into themselves. Sick with a needy virus.
I have their germ.