I wake up, standing to a horizontal glare
in eyes I can’t remember shutting
on a platform at a station
of a line that must be elsewhere
Where the night chill
pricks like daybreak a helium
confusion
at being alive
and born clothed
– – – – – – –
A few minutes past seven, the cashier
hands back the card that was cutting
a rectangle under
my underwear. The card that has been tried,
and cleared of sweat. But the signal
proves the theory of the woman,
who is sad despite her earrings. She says
this is my third attempt at buying
the very same sausage roll, and asks me
Where my bag is, and is there
Anyone she can call?
– – – – – – –
Technically, my eyes
were open the whole time,
and it was me
who did the unbuckling – before the black cat
glitched, and I flipped/ out,
accused the silent fucker (myself)
of betraying benign conversation and a friend
– until, introducing himself
from behind, as nobody I know
an un/welcome whisper saves at least
one part of me
from collapse
– – – – – – –
Waiting for the first train,
on the front room floor
where the blinds are drawn, I underhear them warp
while secretly scouring the carpet
for parentheses
(a callous gust of muscle,
or, flash of tipping alley, the shame of exile
(for the empty-handed crime
of possession: daring, for just a second,
to let my eyes close in the bar))
– – – – – – –
Intrepid, we are a land-bound pigeon,
clambering diagonal fences to nest.
And wake, recoiling from a kitten
in the arms of a child also cowering,
behind a bigger child,
who confronts me sideways: hands on hips
like a diamond, backlit
by an estate-agent’s delight.
When we make them vertical, the children double
undouble and quake
Their mother will be home soon,
this is not your house
and could you
please
just go
– – – – – – –
At the convenience store, I appeal
to the night staff again, hounded
by pity and an ancient man
whose eyes are as yellow
as the dirty coins
he pushes into my hands, crying
with mistaken penance
for abandoning me
in a violence
pre-dating my birth
– – – – – – –
Heavy,
with the absence of belongings,
I’m unable to stand
the reverb of a familiar voice
across the tracks: / The eleven-twenty-seven
to Flinders Street / Stops all stations /
Now departing /
for a terminal
where unclaimed coupons
clog the vortex
I keep for
getting
to
touch
off
