Nobody ever thought to ask her
where it was that the thread had come from,
and at what cost. What were the things
which she unravelled to make it easier
for him to travel back and forth
through complicated passages,
and what they’d meant.
What were the tales she would invent
to justify the loss, the damages,
all those black sails.

now open your eyes like a discussion
see the sky red like a trumpet solo
pick up your phone like you’ve met it in a bar
push the buttons like political agendas
press the receiver to your temple like a gun
choose words like they’re careers for life
make promises like lucky escapes in films
announce decisions like weather after the news
fix walls with your stare like they’re broken
and act like nothing happened nothing happened nothing happened

After some conversations,
there is a palpable sense
that they were little more
than a dance around
the unspeakable, a knot
in the throat, a savage
reaching for things to say
before the abrupt end,
on a cliche, leaving
loose ends untied. A laughable
attempt to salvage plot.
And then you leave like
you’re walking in slow
motion, like you’re an
action hero and they’re
an explosion.

The wind passes through
branches and leaves.
No name for this here.
I make do with
conifers crashing,
forest static,
shrub sough,
bough hum.

So.
I once
built a
tower of
Lego bricks
so high that
it had to lean
against a wall or
collapse. So high
that I had to stand
on a chair I’d put on
a wobbly desk just so
I could place the final
piece. I then stood back
to appraise my vacillating
masterpiece, very proud and
sweating abundantly from the
chair climb, eyes wide, grinning,
best tower ever, best day ever, simple.

A shifting swarm of starlings stretches and stirs over the city.
Below, a young man covers the side of a train in spray paint,
smearing colours to achieve gradients, willing the minutes
to bend so he can finish his outlines before the carriage moves.

Later, the freshly painted train emerges from a tunnel
and takes its long metallic drone through town, mixing
with hubbub from certain ill-lit fast-food places,
those which tend to stay open longer than one would expect.

The dull thud of wheels on uneven rails syncs for a moment with the clang
of cans on artificial marble tabletops, percussion solos from a pizza place
next to an all-night pharmacy. Two people stand outside, not really eating,
not really speaking, but very civilised, ambiable, even.

They lean against the glass under the yellow awning. The boy’s eyes
are on the train. It moves a little fast for him to read the writing.
The girl, slightly detached, her make-up almost fine, focuses
on traffic lights, frowning each time the orange flashes:

she feels the timing’s off, but who’s to say the car horns and barking dogs
cannot make sense, to other ears? She’d be the first one to admit that
when it comes to tempo, timing, phrasing, she still has much to learn.
Above, the writer stands on a viaduct, wiping his hands.

The black curve of the overpass makes traffic slur.

This full moon
is an empty signal for superheroes
with no symbols or totem animals.
Boring, persistent, rugged saviors,
ready to get you out of danger,
and to restore your lost belief
in their ideals.
Quickly, now,
to the blank mobile.

One of those things: start looking for something, get distracted,
and forget what it was that you had set out to find, and why.

Now, do you keep on looking, and expect that the object
of your search will become evident on sight?

Or do you hope that maybe as you rummage
you will find something else of dazzling relevance?

An optimistic thought, but really, what epiphanies
can possibly reside in water bills, car keys and batteries,

or on the pages of that book on migratory birds?
How is it that they always know just where to go?

“The triple jump is ultimately pointless.” – Youtube comment
“The triple jump is NOT A REAL JUMP!” – Facebook group

sports were banned when martial law was declared
the authorities wary of crowds united by athletes winning games breaking records
he refused to cave he kept training
in a clandestine triple jump club he ran
in sewers back streets abandoned alleys
then members started opening doors at dawn to quiet men with serious expressions
soon he was alone
it gave him space to concentrate on technique
the first push the way the foot should land what to think about in flight

as resistance against the oppressors grew
friends would say to him come with us come
print pamphlets throw some petrol bombs
cut the tyres in the minister’s car
he shook his head and worked on his sprint
he felt he needed
a more explosive start better acceleration
still news spread around about the lonely jumper
they said he was arrested
they said that he escaped
someone drew a cartoon
somebody wrote a song

so he was pushed to the front of the group on the big day
you must have seen the footage
how he ran
how he flew across the gap like a paper plane
how the armoured riot squad
opened ranks moved to the side lowered their shields
unwilling to tamper with the perfection of his flight

nineteen metres they said later nineteen metres
and no blood was shed that day

Story time:
years ago, us
boys, we used to
play a special game
we liked to call bus surfing.
On the way from school to the swimming pool,
we’d take one of the long bendy buses with a circle in the middle,
and as it sped down the curving ramps that led down from the bridge,
dare each other to remain upright without holding on to anything.
Bus surfing! Then, inevitably, the day came when one
of us fell, and hit his head, and bled a lot, and died.
Well, not really. Nothing like that happened.
But wouldn’t it have made,
somehow, for a much
better story?