Hold, fleeting kestrel, hold the draft above the pines.
Inanimate adjuster, one who refines,
who is marvelled, whose great achieve-of is
Stillness. No other living Stillness is as fine
as the windhover’s, who halts
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The clock on the wall is broken. It chokes backwards, its voice cracking. He sits in the armchair. I don’t know where I am.
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On my chest of drawers,
the record player is mute,
its needle still in the groove
after it stopped turning…
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10:32—How are you?
I want to tell him I’m watching
a murder—the boy in the carpark blowing out the brains
of a dandelion clock,
my hand a foam finger in the window.
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though you say it’s 2.37, telling me what love is…
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