the breeders of night’s royalty are out | stepping the pavements | talking to
cars | to the Antarctic night | people don’t complain | don’t soil their mitts 
on hills stretched tight | i’m described as a seizure in words | an overused 
product | a tribe-torn society | i live in a mercenary’s dugout by the sea | & 
often the morning’s the great spoiler spinning into the eyeballs of revellers 
caught out in the sun | i play blind man’s buff in the fog | i grab my share 
of the industry | there’s much to put on display | to be repeated | enough 
for everybody to feel their eyes watering | to satisfy their requirements |
the individual smells of old clothes old furniture | this crowded house | this 
theatre of place | of re-enactment | of cramming excitement into a gap | it
animates latent luminaries | flames from candles fizz into a tide’s still
reflection | i ignore why i’m here | my hands sketch winter mythologies 
of orchids | white geraniums | a grapevine muscled in a trellis | i tag
my garden with labels | i’ve written of love’s pictured pedestal in a 
ghost story | my hands fondle the smoothed-off intersections of a 
tower’s crystal skull | today | this green horizon shifts its lofty peaks 
its jagged ridges | today | people watch this maternal colossus crawl 
on all fours across broken ground | her breath warming its hidden depths