I’m straddling a tube.
Blanket-resistant, my legs
feel newborn and frosted.
On our web there’s a scrum,
a swollen mess of cross-stitch,
a stranded, tentacled creature
with secret mouths
and twenty eyes.
My left hand’s deep down steel,
where fingers that raced time to lock
rest stiffly now in peace.
Rain, like Security, gave up
and the dark’s grown generous
as lightly it wraps us, fifty-one of us,
while we sing like Hardy villagers
at a harvest supper
of small and sentimental tragedies
scented with roses.
Empty, I savour happiness,
feel strong and sure
and numb with love.
On high from bold bamboo
the crows’ nests swing,
and from the trucks a playlist quips.
But this is serious,
is everything.
For just one day
the lies are stalled, and in their place
the truth can rise.
As fireworks splinter scarlet,
a grinding churns the air
and metal melts pungent through morning,
we lift it to the light.
