poetry – The Worlds Outside

Hometown, April 2020

Swathed in black, a man puffs on a joint, And grins at his speakerphone. The fit lads cycling past Don’t partake, but they applaud the

I don’t live in the present. Merely between the past, a shadowbird With its talons in my back and muffled caws of summer, Tugging at

Impasse Reaching the cutoff of all paths of action, I am compressed into a single point. Big Crunch week- eat your heart out, Theresa- Crushed

I collect homes, you know- you could say that- Stack up cities like clean plates, Detonate dreams along new suburban skyways. I set my mind

Summer In those first days Hunched and limbsore on the rooftop of the city, Drinking the morning sun- I wondered If lights and sounds could

So, inevitably I caught some kind of bug as my autumn term is wrapping up. I’ve been mulling over my penultimate offering before I fly

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