By | 1 February 2015

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.

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