So much unknowable life assails me

through the honey-glass lozenge

of the evening window.


As Buddy Rich solos on the roof,

I am an unspent match in a cornfield,

a radio antenna for ideas.


The ironwork crop circles of the water towers,

early staging posts for an invasion

above the carapace of the coiled city;


The candied lemons of porch lights

lambent on the windows

of junk-fed rail carriages, thinning and pallid;


The motorcyclist throwing his sound

behind him,

reassuring and confident as a ceasefire.


And despite all this double-timed joy

rushing past me,

still I press myself inwards

insistent as a watercolour through paper,

gaudy, juvenile and primary

like hope, that CMYK with which we must print only the best of ourselves.


I long for a simpler, easier time,

when it was enough merely to cry “catastrophe!”