You’ll always be over there, my feet only oceans away my head can be anywhere— too much to ask you to stay? * We’ll always be good at talking it round but if I could I’d bring you down from on top the Ferris Wheel.
Away from voices on shore, we row into the limitless fog. Our bodies rock together: shoulders, thighs, touching —which is all we want to feel, flooding our heads. The tumid night blankets the water like an oil slick.
The sun has slid down the side of the hill, rolling past the time which signals the end of winter’s worst. And now, the best of spring we’ll receive on seats we’ve moved into position, simply lifted, without engineering. Just somewhere to sit in elevated repose, after we’ve finished levering through the day all our stones into place.
I won’t say I understand you, but I’ll try somehow to find you. Like you I’ve wasted time and I’ll contemplate some more. Because it’s never quite right, we don’t finish anything as much as the times we begin. You’re as hard as the wind.
it’s 11.52 and I’ve long ago eaten my lunch of cheese and lettuce sandwiches. I could have added slices of tomato or cucumber, but then the bread gets soggy and wet bread is like cold jeans in the morning. sandwiches are a family heirloom passed down from my mother who always made them, with odd fillings too, like baked beans or lasagne. there aren’t as many sandwich eaters now; we’re all grown up with our credit cards and mortgages and lunches with rocket salad on the side. at university I bought nachos from the cafeteria once a week, served by Polynesian women who ladled mince and hot cheese sauce like a syrup over corn chips in a polystyrene bowl: a meal that sticks in the memory —and now I'm tempted by hot food from the pie warmer: the chips, the sausage rolls, the potato tops, the kranskies and deep-fried sushi. because if you’re going to buy lunch it should be hot and life can’t be all sandwiches in Tupperware containers.