With the jewel bag jingle of a rain stick,

Tinkerbells cricket their crystal flints

inside the fluorescent bulbs. It’s righteous

how night and day mother each other.

From the carport see the slow-song

lawn-pines sway. Each pair

of fluorescents just newlywed

swans racked up in cryogenic

aluminum crypts. Fluorescents tripped

into blare so passersby can admire

our sparkling rides. Yes, carports are open

to the air, but why say open if they can’t shut?




As she boarded the bus to write a test

she wanted to fail, my daughter thought

it odd his Saab had crept from its hutch.

Three months after his mom had mysteriously

stopped making his lunch, the ginger kid from

a distant cul-de-sac pointed at our neighbour.

In the carport a lawnchair was upset

beneath a noose, our neighbour’s foot

reached like a tongue for a missing tooth.

We didn’t know the swans had thawed.

And forgiveness, the ginger was known

to say, is not their forté.