1 year 9 months in - there's a knock on
the phone, an arching maybe
spanning a week and weekend -
what is that?
they'll know, the ones, the white-suit
slick-blade scalpel crew
you, the you, deep down from
14, from 12 from times before South
Australia, say 'run' - the you, that
loving you, the now, the always you
says 'stay'
and you do, through 4 year, 5 year
nearly and so
in stitching our canvas to the
ebb of my intentions
a little piece, lost in the
filtered red-water lake (it's tea-tree
you tell me, and I, I don't believe) a little
piece of you goes missing,
that's the way I don't see, they took it
I took it - and didn't see you
ragged and hemmed with the 'run, run'
pounding through your head
and me, smashing glasses (it's just a crack)
and muttering like my father at
televisions, the world and all
the promises of high-school captains
and kings of men,
didn't see the stitching
or you, crouched, hungry
trying to suture
us, again, without me
I'm sorry
.
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