I very much wanted to reach it –
that pillar, alarm red with gaping gurn
shining with the postman’s mark
but my feet didn’t quite work
and the sky inlaid with doom was dark.
I couldn’t cognate the way to walk
my legs were string, unravelling rope
falling away in bits, post sulphur soak.
My fringing clothes didn’t even fit me
and draped like an aged net curtain would,
my hairs split twigs from a starving tree.
All I wanted was to reach it, touch it even,
be electrified by this mast of men
stretching calls between continents.
A beacon of the street’s love-ins and brawls.
In the end I couldn’t, white blacked my eyes.
What if I was to not see the floor and fall
contracting toxoplasmosis from cat-marked curbs?
It’s not worth the risk, I insist, let the letter
yellow and knotted mind flow to remote suburbs
or further still, to temperate sand-washed outskirts, just me
not fraught at the thought of spores, or sepsis,
sharp birds in flight, or penetrating company.