In this tiny painted room
Everything is large
All these things are clamouring
To be the one in charge
The thing that matters most of all
Wins the accolade
Lap of honour round the room
Breather in the shade
From these tiny painted walls
Choose your point of view
All these angles know their place
Everything is true

Pages give at the edges to the 
Thumb that flips the corner, and the
Words appear and disappear and the
Eye melts over the moment when the
Night is bleak and heavy with trouble 
A blade of grass outside is easing 
Through the earth and twisting forth
And silent into the day

What are fingers for, if not for
Searching, counting playing Snap and 
Holding onto something, for
Holding onto something? What are
Fingers for, if not for searching, 
Counting, playing Snap and 
Holding onto something till you’re 
Good to let it go?

Heads are swithering, tails considering
Swaying in the wind
And tilting like italics into a
Future that you never know
Time is out of order
Days are folded like a fan and you're
Holding onto something till you’re
Good to let it go

In this tiny painted room
Everything is large
All these things are clamouring
To be the one in charge