Why is it that the pen on paper feels so much more intimate when I know it is going to you?
Each stroke becomes my hand in yours, yours in my hair
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I sound the horn and declare war on time.
This marching arrow will march no more
with a bullet in its knee and another in its jaw.
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Humans have windows with shutters and drapes;
Hinged spheres of glossed glass tinted many colours.
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A wandering child finds a shadow-show:
watches the pale tarp contort the gloom,
where a story is painted by the loss –
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There I am, on the hardwood floor, peacefully cracked,
body broken in half like my Russian dollies.
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