do all corner shops have to die

with peeling skin and

rusted chairs, shadows

where Christmas lights

once

rested

and spread magic

for ice-cream, car-ride-kids?
I am convinced the new moon

was shot there

like a bullet

streaking through clouds

and it’s now

about to break up

into ash
a solemn line of grandfatherly canons

fill a deserted beach

and when you pass them

traces of coals

blink from the sand
if you see a light in my office

at exactly 9 pm – come up

you’ll want to toast this

moment

watch me do this

empty my egg baskets

listen to me telling you
this is how you jettison a load

slowly

but with forgiveness too
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