The tower was locked (its future being chained to the mast
     like a breeze crossed with water from the past tense (that
immense wall of sound’s collage (its anagram eye, loveless
     wireless) abstract but intact. Your childhood lies like party
lines populated by ghosts (some Fenian, others pulled from
     the CSIRO telephone directory. The first email (never sent
cced Gaia but bounced. So it goes … (that manual exchange
     inside a powerhouse (a museum exhibit etched in charcoal
rides the lightning (killing composers, developing in still-life.
     Meanwhile, father’s crystal set gathers dust in a council tip.
The volume & tuning knobs had fallen off anyway, replaced
     by one cent coins (also obsolescent. A smell it gave off when
‘live’ could trigger memories you never knew you had back
     then, in the then when events unfolded in a logical fashion,
proceeding to their happy ending, or a lesson (the Masonic
     Temple’s front yard littered with broken glass, dead weeds
(ah that crazy guy who ran screaming down the street (that
     joke about Oddfellows isn’t so funny now, in his aftermath,
the grey dawn of dead things screwed into the sky (that line
     of furrows from the ground wavered across his forehead, an
object of ridicule allowed one last laugh (surprised to end up
     on someone’s thrown-away camera (your soul locked inside
a mangled memory chip (just an SD card away from rapture
     (or was it repatriation? as shards of laughter escaped from
the abandoned sun memorial (a sound came out of the blue
     sky like, as if from nowhere (a disembodied voice he thought
he’d heard on the antique television set describing Vietnam
     was God (turned out it was the government

                           	(calling him up.