imbibed aubade

By | 1 May 2020

stepping out with all the serenity of
an electric-ended possum pelt,
standing in the shock of sun
coat coursing with energy, eyes
turned to the pale face of morning.
I look the day’s debut up and down
slide my snout along light beams to see
if they have anything in them
worth eating.
the corners are crisp and the sidewalks
semaphore, filled with fibre optic cable,
coy lines of code spilling skywards
and I am making fists out of street signs,
and water out of wine, if the moon
was my lover I would never be alone
I would just think I was.
in Otsuchi, there is a phone booth
where you can dial the dead.
kaze no denwa, the wind phone
carries your words on the currents
but air is not the same thing as breath.
on the corner of Stranger Street
I hurry into the booth, furtive
though there is no one else in need
of a pay phone at this hour – or maybe
ever, in Brunswick. I wonder
what stories the few people passing
might make of my hushed breathing
into the receiver, or whether they care
at all. mumbling into the ether,
under the rumble of morning’s
rubbish run, I tell you the story
of the tawny frogmouth owl
that followed me home.
when of course you don’t reply
I put the receiver down
and run.

This entry was posted in 96: NO THEME IX and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Related work:

Comments are closed.