MOTH

Tomorrow arrives like a parade and the light stains minds orange, pink, bruise. I will now deny everything I have heard. Trains are not romantic, my tyres will not puncture on this glass, dogs do not smile. There is so much waving it cannot be cured by silence. Wring out the noise and swim in that working dew. Look in the bland cheek of sky while I deny everything I have ever heard. A bird is not worth and cry for all milk and it doesn't come out in the wash. Afternoons lash out like tails. Fire is shy and when smoke arrives, people check their clothes to find their pockets full with water. Others turn themselves sideways and move about the room like surgery. The rush to hide begins - early can start anytime. Conversation spills, doors swing wide into hopeful shrinking light, windows now are open and blinking. We will smile with our bodies to escape. Words eddy and float like bad weather, gusts send them hurtling. Slowly catch back on exactly this: gather and dig, the soft earth gives like cake you can test it with your teeth. Sieve these next days and retain the crumbled mornings. Suddenly turn to drift. I didn't hear that, I didn't hear that and I turn sideways and my mouth heals like a cut.

-Mick Turner