It’s the long hair, untenably straight, and

the swinging eye, like a moon losing orbit.

There has always been trouble brewing –

rising to a knot and then smoothing off

like a yacht setting sail for a trip

around the horn, hardly progressing

against the current; actually against the

direction the world is spinning in.

Such a wearisome traveller – confused

but ever-hopeful, I’ve seen you nod

your grey head, a hollow cheek and down-

line – you are sweet but unwell, pierced

but uncut – we have always gotten along.

There are, after all, no false timelines

– a few breaches perhaps, a few ragged

stories, but they are harmless details

done up and hilarious in their impossibility,

as unpredictable as a shooting star

briefly experienced from the ground

looking up. Your thinness and fighting lungs

are the whip of a narrow cord – it flails

in any breeze but never breaks. We wait

for the grinding down of bone

to chalk, and it always eventuates.