Aimless between
Dropping out
Of art school
And absolutely no
Friggin’ money . . .

it’s a special kind of empty
the footed earth, saluting the sky

It beckons from between plasters and hand cream,
the box bright-white, the lettering green.

Travel West. Submerge yourself
in the M4’s homeward drift.

slid in bass-drop dams up
pierced ears, furred
with youth, his vest drinks sweat,

lunchtime, in the maths department
arranging pencils by colour
two friends, carefully sorting
into clear plastic tubs

Unexpected as burned stone,
what am I supposed
to do with this memory?

Aircon crickets through the night
outside my parents’ bedroom
since brother and I are not allowed AC
given the dangers of cold air to children.

We did not inherit land,
only remnants of fields they burned—
black fields scorched before we understood