walk: a true story

Last night, I sat on the edge

of the river and yelled out into the blackness

admitting the truth, clinging to the ground before I fell

headlong into the black-encased stars.

You held me down with a hand. We talked of

broken wrists and cold mists. As

always, the rushing of water calmed and with it

flowed away the things that were wrapped around my eyes –

I saw the treetops silhouetted, chilled fingers losing flesh-leaves

as I fear the skeletal, I hope

you will not let me hide when the winter comes.

you sit next to me in math

the way you see the world –

failing to plan like these all around us, happy

we are just taking each piece of life in turn

we are not of this land, we recognise the potted plants

when we see them. Transported, roots always with us

we love the sun as life.

We have been cooked into these other selves,

frozen and reheated

eaten up by them as plastic dinners

when our core is all organic,

full of the things they are searching for.


I miss being the self that I understood.

Here, muted in color and thought, I am often lost

in my own words, confused. Before

here, I could say things in any language

and rarely be misunderstood

because directness is imperative

when one is only present for a moment at a time.

This frustration of tongue, that

what I mean and what I say can possibly be two different things – i

feel myself slipping,

sinking backwards behind a reality of protocol and what is cool,

swimming in masques of politeness and belonging.