“Maybe it’s a thing you could call the subgrime”

                                                                          Jill Jones to Claire Albrecht




I’ve been looking at my hands holding the knife,

at the skins, pips, cores, stalks

at the sink filling

I’ve been looking at tiny writing on packets

I’ve been looking at daddy long legs in corners

at huntsmen stepping from crannies

the knotty hair of sleeping children

jar lids, special offers.
Angus Young plays the guitar.

It is his work, he wears a uniform.
Jodi lowers herself into the water.

“What even is everything,”

thinks Jodi.
My ordinary life feels like a dirty fleece

hard grease and soft grease

and dirt and burrs.

I’m hoping the energy to wash and rinse

that heavy, crinkled, mass

will discover me

one morning.
Angus Young

smoking a cigarette, wearing a jumper

talking to Molly

“we started as a rock n roll band

you never think you get that far

people

want you to soften it here

mellow it there.”
I’ve been looking

                                        at the sky
clouds like Florentine wallpaper

clouds like crinkled staples

clouds like a frosty window.   The sky with nothing

but a pewter-grey edge

coming in fast.

The sky cloudless. Every

          fing

                                                  thing

ting

          connected.
I’ve been looking at a hill of beans

and a damp coriander leaf wet and flat on the counter

feathery margins akimbo.
The knife, the wool

the sky, the burrs, the riff

the pool, the tapes, the taps.

Jodi pushes off the side

to start her backstroke

arms glittering.

Angus listens to the next question

answers with a cloud.