northern wanders early autumn

3.

morning after pill

flowing clumpy through my fingers
dawn-cold sand, a mauve colour
at the grey beach, by the play equipment
where I’d slept, deeply & sedately,
underneath the electron microscope.
crystalline, multi-coloured sand,
up close, inspected individually,
in the light from stars named
though wholly wrong, is as varied
as I am—as you are: raindrops,
leaves, people, dust from cosmic legacy—
explosive growth when roots secure a sewer
pipe of running water, and feed
upon our faeces, like flowers
and boutiquey truffles. normally
I’d claim the same omissions,
whilom societal dispositions,
as words will close discussions,
a ‘star’ is doubtless countless
many things more than language
-polished lenses can ever clarify,
these floating stellar focusing devices,
so many more things: bankers, priests,
plumbers and magicians…but now I think,
as the mountain ranges pink with snow,
all words are pointers, misdirects,
I look away, towards a door slammed.
the sun, twenty minutes from its entry;
and, waiting, as her monologue closes,
graveyard radio host, the Moon, about to exit,
stage west, will not briefly book-end, with Sol,
My dawn, and I will stand between
two states, two distances, a man
amongst seagulls alerted by the croissants
carefully heated on an orange-violet flame
from a small gas cooker. magnificent silence,
all circles observantly. suburban windows.
tight, clear, lamp-lit; erogeny ready,
I can feel it pulsing, I will own this
and command the caffeinated state
for a lean poetic pornography. early or late,
is she going home, or into the big toilet
to cry? I decide she is peeing
on a stick to determine a decision
on her mate, and I close the bag, too
weighty at first, but now half the size
it was, the didge airlifted home, books
abandoned unread, Mac, put to sleep
in a box with breathing holes,
& sent behind the instrument
—the lightness in my step!

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