One house
next again
pert green
white garage
sprinkler muted

out of order no

wraparound sound, sigh

of fridge door

city tightening

the mountains
seem not to move
have texture

pavement empty, road adrift, the car
shining safely

the neighbour hood coming to a slow

coming to a rolling


The police stations seamless, riveted
and sealed, foreign as spacecrafts; still
the place grows around them. Prams like
hot-wired cars lie empty on the grass;
past tricolour kerbstones girls push
at invisible winds; sky the colour of armour
and the air muscular with battle.

The slow quotidian burrs in these hives
of negativity. King Billy and Princess Di
rule their dystopia of Rangers clubs and chip shops
in the here and now, the present tense
with counterflow, facing time head-on
as walls face winds, coasts face off the seas,
and lose so slowly it feels like winning.

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