a hidden snap echoes from my neck joint
it’s like a midori jug, one collector-chic bar
& an early 2000 arrangement of feet on path.
blackguard irish pub sits reading byron, gauging the weather,
issuing schooners to a frigid table, & what else, as if all
luck were presaged by mobile updates bathroomwise?
then the stories of childminding told to a trampoline:
the first – six year old checkers; tazos; the killing
tone wavering from your expartner (sarah: ‘put more
violence into your poetry!’) the second: fretting about
the sleepwalking boy without cause; delirious in a heat
of afterthat. & now, as if characterised by
eyes newborn from a marathon sleep,
i’m the slowteardrop, this.
the stolen carstereo forces silence (aggresive)
while sluicing the gobbagombalin fog, & this
perusing your mind: construct a view as if leaning
from a mountain lookout. hurl something.