We had a sweep in the week

and he brought us some eggs

we don’t get another one until

Monday is your car open

the swing seat’s in the garden

if you want to sit down

Tut’s on you like things like that

have you seen this shot of her

she’s got horns she looks sort

of 1940s doesn’t she has anyone

seen the Radio Times

I’ve looked in the bucket

you said they put you to sleep

when you were in hospital that

man the day you came back he

was put into a home oh we’ve just

missed the secret life of the cat

well he might have gone to a nice

home so you quite liked him then

there’s the Great Wall on More 4

China’s secret history you like

things like that did you get any

tips then but it’s a bit embarrassing

when you have hot flushes and you’re

doing yoga and your sweaty feet slip

on the mat it’s in here you know

that man they took to hospital

so have we established

you’ll give me a knock when

you’re finished in the bathroom

oh there’s Dorothy and Charles’s

wedding she’s put some photos on

facebook it’s the family when they came

to stay with her from South Korea

the Chinese suffered under the yoke of Mongul rule

it says Dorothy’s lived here for forty years

near the Catholic church this is heavy

it’s heavier than yours isn’t it yours

is an android fancy posing like that

look at that just imagine living there

in one of those so they used sticky

rice in the mortar what’s that

oh it’s just him boom booming next door

can we establish what order we’re using the bathroom?

Echoes in the rain

of a long lost prayer

resonate around a silent room.

Iced feathers, as from Angels’s drift

Engulf my soul, my heart, my world

With blessings of love renewed.

Death’s true calling
was music: he built
a piano, with keys
of blanched bones;
strung it with sinews
and tuned it with
secrets, from the grave,
exhumed and stolen.

From it, he wrung
symphonies of emotion,
the elusive spectrum,
and let the searing melody
surround him –
empty spectator,
dancing on the
other side of the veil.

Snatches of different languages. I look up

the steps of the Sydney Opera House.

Scattered pockets of tourists climb and run up.

There’s a universal bravado about it all.

Birds of paradise bordering a concrete vaulting,

blown trash whipping at the chain-link fence.

The flora is lush, random and leggy,

limbs smooth as butter-cream stride on by.

Flip-flops slop maintaining a momentum

which travels up the body. Slight girls

in tight skirts drag wedge heels behind

their rucksacks hobbling the posture.

A scene of transience, paradise bordering.

Blown trash whipping at the chain-link fence.