because ever since god-knows-when
these are the waits traditional to
christmas – chinese dinners & ham
radios, eucalypts bled into watercolour
: “the sun poured down like honey.”
irish drums behave, in this instance,
as genetic coding
a purpose-built jigsaw tray that pulled
the skin & nail off my big toe – the
exact geometries of resemblance &
what it means to have sameness
sneaking behind a cactus garden for a
joint with uncle P : the ants so fat they
pop under shoes, or worse, climb to altitudes
puddingless and clotted, and with one
large gravy spoon, drunk. a desperation
or else, a physics kit, skull tattoos, underwear
embossed with glyphs of semi-quavers &
the smell of lavender a hit of snuff
