By | 1 February 2013

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born a day apart we are here today, yesterday
but we are counting and the telephone rings
and we stop, on time, today again yesterday
and you ask how can this be and we go quiet
on time, listen to static, mosquitoes trapped
in flyscreens, smoke shifting decidual leaves
on time, on time, and you ask how can this be

so we sing who’ll come a-waltzing and we sing
john brown’s body and stars and spangles
and country too wide and sunburnt for any of us
while I dream of the city of angels and again you
call me the son of a godless convict, on time,
and the telephone rings and you ask about coyotes
and we glance at the clock, on time, always on time

and now if we were strapped in a jetliner careening
through new york skies and holding hands, cold
until we explode into shards of window glass
and aluminium and concrete-dusted filing cards
on time, this sun-struck morning, on time, last
fearful night and the telephone rings, on time
and you ask what date they will mark our epitaph

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