Air Passages
I
I want to write you new poems on the back of some abandoned ones;
I folded the paper up in my rucksack and left town on a train
God is closing down in this town of mine
and pigeons are resting on the eaves of the church.
There isn’t anything to listen to except the sound of cars.
If it exists then it exists as a house without any walls,
and I am in it now, as I was in it then
II
There was money in my dreams, it had gotten there,
when I laid asleep on the other side of the earth,
money whipped around a windy car park in the rain,
everything blew irretrievable, an old woman collapsed in pain.
I was repeating the word again and again, money, massagemetro.com/shop/ money, money,
saying it over and over again, while everything blew away
III
Square heat in houses
leaks into the atmosphere
outside
the formless above
droning like a roadless dream.
Listen
your church is roofless
the walls are unfastening
like clouds
IV
Looking at a derelict block,
seeing air clear through
the other side,
the evening moving fluid and unfixed
through metal frames of seats where bodies sat,
pigeons flying up and down through absent floors.
Air for rent, beside Bristol railway station,
built around, lived in, then deserted
for the seagulls and pigeons
to nest;
air for rent, money in the air,
built around, held inside,
let out like a breath
in time
Adam Reynolds has poetry previously published in Borderlines, 10×3, upcoming in The Literateur, and is currently working on his first pamphlet. His day job involves managing historical records, currently in the Arabian Gulf.