one of the things that happened was
under the rose. I pressed my finger to my lips
and rosy petals fell, crusted white with thrips.

one of the things that happened was the execution.
and the doctor's head on his desk. glaceed,
heavy like a medicine ball.

during the reallocation we drained the swamp
the eggs were fed to the elders
& the pens opened up to the pastures.

 our old friends escaped and I
found a place to sit with my feet
in sparkling waters, a little foam gathering

around my toes.

today i saw
a moment of public disavowal: well, I relate to him more as a friend than a poet.

I asked her to hurry - we needed to meet the officers out on the road. And I was concerned about the father coming back. By now she was pulling crumpled clothes, medicines out of a cupboard stuffed with things, strewing them on the floor. You go ahead. I'll be there soon. I wondered how old she actually was.

I went and stood on the road's edge, fiddled with my phone. Headache. Dust. Text from the officers saying not to move, they had been delayed.

And then there was a short, high-pitched squeal, and my stomach filled with lead, and I turned as in a big bad dream back to the trees, the greenery grey with dust from the road and all this growth thicker than ever, incomprehensible, animal shapes of its former growth hidden within it and how would I press through there? There was a sharp cracking sound and I thought I must wait for the officers, it wasn't safe, but I remembered how I had told her she could come to stay with us and I felt shame at the thought of leaving her there. My legs, brave soldiers, carried me in.

They were not at the summer house. The rubbish sack of her things was burst open and scattered through the open doorway. I heard his angry voice deep among the trees, so walked to where I knew they were - by the old shed - but when I got there they were silent. The door was completely off its hinges. He was pulling cages from within the shed, one by one, stacking them against its outside wall. The sables were squirming and pacing.

That question again: -were you appealing to him? -are you appealing to them?

A trick question & a good trick, got me both times. The verb, not the adjective. Head clunks through the point of view shift. & the question that's not the real question is the question that's the answer.

Dear Doctor,

I glazed over at about four o'clock, about 20 minutes after becoming convinced that you'd cured me. Plastinated? Thanks very fucking much. When do you get home?

-I don't know why you think there is only one way back.

cradle

saw nothing

woke up without having phoned.
without having fed her.

pine trees cracking overhead
orange needles for someone's bivvy

how you sleep at that angle or the
constant noise from the wind

and a branch falls. haven't fed her.
fused to a seat on the bus that guy

going round like pairs of butterflies
the street below your adrenal gland

caught in a flutter like that.
you don't sleep. I woke up.