from Sandy Rooms #3


I was woken, on the book-wide bench
in the less-used changing rooms
nearby the zoo,
by the light of a recording instrument,

three teenage boys, and a girl.
I knew
the scenario safe and stayed
still, pretending
to be asleep
so they could film, and µpload,
I hoped, for proof
of the artist’s
backstory, the bearded

with his head on some anthology.
I lay waiting as their snuffled
giggles quietened…then moved
suddenly, tiger swift, roared,
hands concocting volcano
as the blanket leapt up, to
flutter featherful to the sandy

and my laughter was
not captured
because their screams
above the phone
muffled my mirth.


I think the story
slows in winter,
the Light taking Time
aside, comparing…

the cold and hard
brightness of the White
in winter. black lines
black edge black bright
white centre…

It’s late Autumn,
and the city, wintering
early, is in gloves
with the tips cut off a
half centimetre.

I’ve found a quality
Icebreaker scarf
in the sanitation
bin of the paraplegic
toilet. I’m guessing
it was spoiled on, or slid
like an otter, off the
shoulders of the last owner.
I have washed
it, blow-dried it
and the faint perfume
of the previous
wearer is changing
my bearing
in ‘mine’.


I’m in love with my health
the happiness
of nowhere else to be
my flat stomach
in cold shower
and the freedom
nowhere aching

bright ceramic tiles
shine on stainless
clothing hangers
in love with who they
think they filmed.

and all day, breathing
compiling a list
of the World’s woes,
where what is wrong
is offered, in repose,

and calm. Lego building
in a toddler’s daycare.
you’ve wondered
why, under
City winter skies
I research the menstrual

of a private
public toilet
to the finding of
the item
now around my neck?

very well.

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