08/04

one towel is for the body,

one towel is for the face, a rosebush in rain,

curved leafs all reservoirs

for rain, droplets

rare beetles clear as sea salp,

hungering like abyssal beings

starved of light,

forced to give birth to light

and his fingertips, like his heart,

squared – as a join is squared –

pushing massive brick walls on their tracks

over to where such walls are needed.

alley cats pause a moment

aware of being watched by packs of stray

dogs whose infected mouths

gush teeth like slot machines.

the odour of the dogs makes man-

dogs smell sweet as rosebushes,

quartz ascribed special powers by

absorbing the play-sound of dolphins in its piezoelectric fibres 

as skin pores admit light.

it is Saturday.

at the psychic fair are booths

empty for some powerful fortune tellers’

absences due to unforseen maladies.

mistrust is not the primary mode

and so it is my own name I doubt

as I smash the labelled letterboxes over with a stake

uprooted at a nearby biomass farm,

my drive-by car driving through the quiet suburban streets like a stake,

thinking of so many, many miseries amalgamated

into humour, humour into joy

and the names collapse like the final

out-of-breath cadences of hymns sung at a great aunt’s funeral,

cross upon the altar blessed

by dolphins play-fighting with the current.