quarterly report no. 7: epiphytes and vetiver control
Before the fourth sunrise, the road shoulder
has already shrugged off its riffraff,
grass grower over night without tea or sympathy.
Side alley slippers from the lights,
eye shadows all and sundry.
Levees veer behind the suns,
tugboat between nonplussed and shy panty
hose. You leave. The remains as it was,
aqueducts bursting at seams
away from the centre of the spinning plate.
A crab claws back. Fig leaf. Prawn
crackering… Something comes unstuck,
sums added up. Eventually everything
swallows even eventually up. Puff.
Evening spat out like newt.
There's nothing to it. Lovers pistol-whipped
into acquiesce, then resume normal
appliance before dinner function at nine.
Come night, certain absentees glower,
tips shudderer as vitreous floaters.