The moment sticks
when told at twelve
you are too old to be held.
being shinned by a swing.
Around the ends of breathless fingers,
a twist of thread reminds
that at the point of separation
you become someone else.
I traversed the streets
no roadside bloom of fluorescent precision.
My body comprised
of the unwanted,
cuts and peels
like a compost’s
mouth at the fence.
Outside on the cracked pavement
weeds push through like labour,
tools line up next to that pile
my mother used to better the soil.
I sit and remember
the transferral of dirt
from one place to another.
Dandelions float and drift
counting the risk of light and lift
on each tiny spore.
Distance is a promise mouthed at six feet.
This panic is no picnic.
A spread of white flags
but nothing is covered.
Your birthday is a candle
the only thing going out.
It won’t matter if the buttons don’t match the bag.
We are voyeurs & no-one is looking.
We are tactile & out of bounds.
Static is the only flight
around this fragile moon.