untitled

it is the last day

before the night

of my second trip

back

and all the differences

I’ve ever made are standing

on the bank, forming a

path in ink.

they are here to hand

back the burgled time

I’ve stolen.

One last time I offer

‘I’d always intended

to give it back’

– they say nothing –

they can’t say anything.

I have turned my tongue

anti-clockwise,

or at least otherwise

somehow wound whole armies

up, given life to ghost

myself, echoes of light

in ideas to conquer

or be conquered.

they unwind but don’t

slow down, unlike my hand

tapping as I float through

inky procession,

coaxing as sirens do;

encouraging a wave

to arch its fluids to

foolish lengths

in its best attempt

to seduce.