Clouds

1 February 2017

when we broke i tried to write a poem
commemorating the occasion. i wanted to say
our time was worth remembering, but
rushing forward i braised it in salty voiced sea metaphors
, you, it, me, us , the horrifying bruise of
the colonial history of rottnest (as if it had something
to tell specifically us), world war two utility fighter planes
& yr kinda racist father.

i entered it in a local poem contest
judged by scott-patrick mitchell
. it didn’t even make the commends.

i couldn’t see: we shared in-jokes that would not function
in poems, for example pronouncing the word clouds
like the name klaus, exaggerating the soft end
. i didn’t foresee: three years to follow where we’d lose
all contact, where clouds would still enter suddenly

a ghost / a long-lost letter / a setback / a lapse
/ an impulse / a triggered nerve / synapse / a re-run
of a dumb sitcom

that we’d watched and rewatched
nine or ten seasons of
, dampening down the busy brain space like

stuff / fairy floss / cotton wool / dodgy insulation
schemes / fluffy covers / high thread count / clouds

until parted, framed that one long night where grasping
the significance, i couldn’t stop myself from crying
or doing
what i’d started: being unable to face you or us
, stuck between two bad futures.
i couldn’t have: pencilled in the repetitions, the days
i’d wonder who would break this stretching silence
first until you deleted f.b. or maybe
deleted me & time passed & keeps
passing until wednesday i see
you in the street, do nothing but wave
while you smile big & keep walking
& it isn’t that i’d want you back, or that
i’d do it all again, or that
i can still see laid out
the minute machinery
of how we ever worked
in the first place
, it’s just

soaked loose ends, obscured
& dangling, trigger some things
& i’ve nothing to tell them.

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