For WH

Like rope and pulley work to hold up pink

and stodgy cherubs. Like the apple of my

iPhone, faint of charge. Like the superfluity

of biker’s arms or the big and little words

of lovers’ cells. Like the stylised tantrum

of youth rejecting the tutelage you feigned.

Like shy graffiti or the bling of cases. Like

the cashing trees. Like toddlers hovering

at the margins, where dragons used to be,

or a high-speed ransack of outdoors.

Like sudden mushrooms blooming pages

between or the screwdriver of your pocket

knife taken to canvases. Like your skywriting

jet gunned down mid-cliché. These trifles.

Read the rest of Overland 229

If you enjoyed this poem, buy the issue

Or subscribe and receive
four outstanding issues for a year