, , , , , ,

so lonesome the sound

of someone else’s fireworks

on the eve of a blank new year.

momentary constellations

of colour and light

glimpsed through a crack

in the living room curtains

you’ve drawn against

the world’s cold draft.


you exist on the edges

like a fox foraging

in the city night.

an interloper’s sense

of unbelonging owns you,

points its finger,

dials a number,

makes a report.