How do you find thoughts that go missing?

Another one from what’s turning out to be a series. I guess I’ll call it the ‘unshruggable silence series’ : 

I’m often asked these days

In equal parts

By myself and others

About the wandering of my thoughts

And about their colour.

Well, I don’t know much 

But I know where I’d like to look for them – 

I’d like to slip into the little slit

That I imagine a sharp knife would make on my thin wrists

I’d like to ride the hardness of a warm gun

All the way to my spleen, my gut, my very heart and look for them there

I’d like to look for them in the eyes of frosty mountain peaks

And in the depths of dark oceans

I’d like to look for my thoughts in these places

And these places specifically.

And I don’t know their colour

But I know I’d recognise them in an instant

I’d know their lonely silhouette 

Huddled up in their favourite crouching posture

The baby, in the womb, they always seemed to need.

Or the vagrant wasting away on an old park bench

Or a commuter stranded on a platform, waiting, endlessly

In seeking them out these would be my usual suspects. 

I don’t know my thoughts

Or their whereabouts

I’m clueless and empty

And I receive and stare and take in

Everything and anything that stands in front of me

A computer screen with squiggles and things

A friend I’ve known long enough

A book with its words all loud and open

A street with its cars and people and its peddlers and hawkers

I take in everything

And offer in return

In equal parts and without discrimination –

Blank stares and a vacant expression.