I am sitting at the table in a leather chair

in his well-lit room

confidently reading ‘E’ from the top of a chart

whose letters drop like a waterfall

over sharp granite

without stanzas or full stops

as if the decision to shape it this way

was mimetic


I can’t hide my increasing struggle

as they get smaller and smaller



under a TV

that I do not own


by 2. fly-flicking this



That gap

I clicked on the page

she held out to me

as if I were a pigeon

pecking seeds from her

cupped palm –




here –


I was searching for

the scientific term

for that gap between

rocks that elbow


bones into the sky

and cannot be crossed

without rope –


caving is a whole different story,

a whole different story.


The author had spent




I am walking down the road

thinking about



my people


on roads like this

that the dusk is quietly erasing


people on trams

in trains

that whip about on fixed axles

pressing their bevelled feet

into the rails


I don’t know their names, so

I hold them

in a sweet anonymity

I once shared


not mattering in the proper


in the way in which

the waitress who smiles warmly



The Robins

I am sitting at the table

in front of an empty fireplace

heater blaring

the smell of bolognaise and

Nina Simone


for James –


his brother

is probably on the way to a jazz club by now


stuffing baked potatoes

with pulled pork –


‘corn?’ he asks and

the two

tilt their heads

as if robins,

she from one

and he the other side

of the counter,

waiting for the glutinous

‘plop’ that will come


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