I will never be the control

in this experiment.

I will be the reaction

but never meet the creator.

It will fail.

My face cannot say who I am.

It will never show

what I know

to be true.

If it did it wouldn’t fit right.


One small crack on the veneer of the

eggshell that I am

can send me spiraling


I don’t tell anyone.

I try to see the method

that others use.

It’s a different language

and I can’t count on



More dependent than I could ever admit,

I pretend my own roots are enough

to stand through surrounding decay

and it’s always maybe,

maybe they are

but maybe I need you today.


It’s not to say

I don’t want to be part of the process

but I can’t participate

when I’d rather notate

all the invisible parts of me

slide off the rails.

It’s not about process,

it’s about function

and I can work,

if you help.


as long as the earth lasts

a retired mother vacuums an empty house, implores the quiet spaces for response

and feels an overflow threaten her eyes when she understands


the sand blasted beach cottage where family mosquito-plagued board games

inevitably descended into


memories of a chance encounter. A night when soft lips held a smile at rest,

begging to be joined by his coarser embrace and to remind him


silent Christmas mornings, when no one else is awake apart from a parrot at the

feeder, feel like


the sorrowful waiting room dictating one visitor at a time transforms the vending

machine into a monster and only serves to accentuate


the gravity of a child’s giggling first step across unforgiving linoleum floor is as pure as


a fifteen kilometre walk to the family’s water source allows the necessary time to
think about


one gull in flight, so unmistakably wise and independent riding the updraft, can

see even better than


the most astute commentator may unmask government failings but will never

remove their own façade to comprehend the


sound of waves, ten feet above tingling skin, in an ocean without fear is the closest

one can come to


the feeling of a wedding day, when the flowers are fresh, lasts as long as


the time it takes to cross a loud, disconnected stranger-infested intersection is

enough to realise


we will never know enough about each other’s insides to uncover why


so many lost people are misunderstood and dismissed by those who are as ignorant as


a film star is everything you want to be, then in any interview is never the human you
want them to be but


music is always best experienced alone at night amongst slices of moonlight

while you imagine


the things you write under the sun but would never utter aloud except to


a pet is the kindest listener because they rarely pass judgement and you believe

they can’t translate


your emotions catch you napping in the merciless afternoons and none are as
complex as


the idea of love seems both tangible and foreign when you gaze upon


a sharp petite face you’ve just whispered a secret to, trusting them to keep it in
confidence so no one ever knows


a tiny green caterpillar arches its face skyward through the long grass, completely


that a baby is cradled by an arm of the church, gently wet and forced to follow

Jesus without a voice to speak while


the last bus recedes before she could reach it, and as the rain explodes on the
footpath, a hooded girl is waiting


for a young man who takes pale steps through a crowded room full of old people,
one woman repeating ‘nice to meet you’ to her daughter, to where his
grandfather is


listening intently before being questioned, the light in a politician’s eyes shifts in
shade and he spreads his hands; about to elucidate


all is not lost but we are always alone. That’s why misty-faced soldiers


never stay for long even though the beautiful bodies of blonde, mid-twenties, skinny
dippers at midnight speak of hope


when her lips meet his eyes he’s never seen such a complicated twist and neither can

say what they want because


friendship can seem so much easier when a smooth brown horse sharing straw and
sawdust in silent companionship with a farm dog explains


that even the weakest solitary iceberg, accosted from every angle, never becomes soft

but that doesn’t stop it


— disappearing