of sheer aluminium, neighbouring
tiled black crosses, moody crows.
I dip into religion like a picked apple
pushing out alone, a warm spear of muscle.
Each stroke an affirmation - the world is an onion.
an eyeball, a fleshy knucklebone.
The cross swims the length, re-emerges on the
new wall and smiles, an Arctic crevasse.
I start to recant - the world is a porch step, a book.
two smooth palms on the floor.
I rise and fall, a vibrato of heat and blood,
Am I a clay pipe? Am I new oil?
The thousand metres are clocked. As I climb out
the questions drop away, small clear thorns.
I breathe like a candle and step away from the
water; a bulb, a baby's head, a spinning globe.