Remember all the clocks glow
black tonight. Do you know
who that is, knocking VERY LOUD,
so the dog whimper-drags its household
under the table? Cacophony
is the new literacy, a library
of graves open their traps,
and walking dead are snapped
face-painting and jogging
in the park, a letterbox bangs
open its genie smoking (who sends
letters anymore? Fuck em!)
But who will blow-dry the choked
gutters? That man in the raincoat
keeps three suitcases stuffed
with leaves under his bed.
Air needs a new cocoon,
orange and black balloons
on gateposts, old crones
ubiquitous as traffic cones,
a stark simpler colour,
pumpkins and burnt paper,
the ink-spotted tree that burst
into rooks. And what's the worst
he can do? There he is again
(he always is) behind you
if you turn in the leaf-padded lane
behind the new houses where
we'd poke for hours – a stick
snaps, a distant firework –
and what's the worst game
we can play, and whose turn
is it now, who'll be It this time?
