We build mountains


We build mountains
from increments of time and motion:
timetables and places, placements,
placemats, play dates, the peripheries
and spaces where we keep the instruments
of living, sleeping, weaning, cleaning,
cluttered cadences and frequencies;
the sinusoidal blip of the commute, drip
drip of that annoying tap that’s never fixed,
forever fixed as a nostalgic milestone;
the friends we keep on promising to meet
and decades later still keep promising;
the turning moons and spinning constellations,
quantum clocks of choruses and choirs,
catechisms, cradles, graves, procrastinations,
precious rituals of likes and leftovers
all generously layered upon layer.

We build a mountain,
living in its shadow, even as the
other side is redolent with sunset.
Once, we hike up to the crest to see
the horizon before it eats the evening sky.



Songs of the Everyday, Visions

Buried far far beneath the evening sky.
Where the trees have lost their shadows,
where lonely lights hunt through the depths
and the last of the supermarket shoppers
shoot cigarette smoke with the guards
before they hang their heads home.

Want to be up there, upon that mountain,
among crystal air and pink gold clouds.

Let go

Songs of the Everyday

I have a window
But the frame is thick
And lets in little light.

Outside the window
I have concrete wall
And incongruous barbed wire.

And if I crane my neck
I can see a strip of sky
That has been grey too long

But on a good day it is blue
And later on makes orange love
To the tree beyond the wall.

I am chained and locked away
And watch the daily shadows
Speed across the concrete

Until I can escape up to the hills
Where along the concrete skies
It is my shadow’s turn.