Home

The treble since leaving; the screech of engines,

mechanical lungs, cymbal, drum,

slice of sliding door, the meddle

of straight lines chiselling space

around expansive curves.

No cello; slime,

billboards, neon signs.

Lip-curled rebel graffiti

stretching sights up and over

the nape of walls lining up with reasons.

Graffiti shouts at hammer feet guests on tarmac;

how infinite seems the small space of quiet within.

Silence swells to send a symphony hurtling faraway,

to expand that view, spray the walls, cello

horsehair on the string, pull a note to carry –

after rondo, a serenade home. A lone dream sonata

on electric folds of silk, a bell rings

along the shoreline, when hands wrap

metronome around desire. The Bus stops here.