A Tuesday morning in November
out on the street taking in the bins.
As a flight of crows flashed past
the street lights went out.

Noises are louder now: the kesh
of tyres on tarmac slicked
with leaves. Rain’s drumming thunder.

When you’ve used one handle to open the door,
use the other handle to close it.

She hadn’t lost a child but if she had she imagined it would be like that.

Let fathers bind their sons
to altars, so the wind
might winnow the chaff.

Sarsaparilla Road
travels through swamps
and reeds, over a black
water creek and a narrow bridge

Not in that parking lot,
not in that residential area,
not in that blue car
splashed with mud.

we make sure to pack a deck of cards for the train, or a sunday afternoon visit to the park. the cards will give our hands something tangible to do . . .