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.