one should try to make sense of all patterns: below &
around & above. it is my mission, after all. i know this.
yet i cannot draw myself away from the earl-grey tea,
ruminations. maybe all larrikin days must end quickly;
i should pin my badge to another. william is a terse lad,
but every evening as i ought to fly he polishes his boots,
dines lightly & gives me a knowing wink. unscathed
in the morning he savours a breakfast. perhaps as shadow
i always recognised him, slipping in to comfort me when
the nightmares hit: the bodies floating back skyward,
grinning. i can’t spot enemy lines now, surely because
his soft phallus & scratching kisses have etherised my spirit.
my fight. i am not angry. often i relish becoming lost in the weft
of a stray wire, the twist of a clouding star. the empire, one we fight
for, is immeasurably more than a vague concept. but i forget in what way.
i imagine my wife plays online. the lawns are green this time of year.