[24 January 2019]
I sing out,
hold my hands out
stretched, filling the gap between the slats of the old broken fence post,
fingers running like braille over splinters of wood and memory
and old paint weaving together a story I forgot like I forgot yesterday
like I can only see with my eyes closed.
The redbush lost its leaves but took up half the distance
between the ground and the sky.
My lips are parched, parted,
pointed to the sky,
kissed, taut, and caught cold in the ring of the dawn,
catching flame caught in prismatic spectres of times gone by.
We sing out,
with that selfsame virtue of certitude,
handspun between similitude and similarity and streaked scarlet, scored,
and splayed splash-golden across the screen of night sky,
silent, and silent, and silence,
just before all the lights go out.