Poetry Corner: And now what

open languid wandering hours
filled with not much
whose emptiness is not healing
anxiety about undone and ought to be
done doubling in upon itself
recriminating inabilities to relax
something wrongness staining the thought
running toward unfulfilling fullness
while bitter draught of restless rest ruins
what was supposed to be a good summer
supposed to be
supposed
to be

be

ah
God
hold me
as I cannot seem to hold myself
with any ease confirming my childhood in you
so that play comes
play
play
play
play
play
play
play
seven times seventy play
is summer

- Philip Carr-Jones