being told

The window’s open
‘I’ll go, it’s best.’
He blurs.

I snatch at the frame,
plucked by this air
I suck.

Every membrane knows
the light split and grip
slip away

futures fray, coiled strands
undone, spun out
to nil.


Session 2


Shadows cut
arcs round her eyes.

‘I hate regret -
hooked to a window.’

Bent forward, she glares
through the floor,
rocked by the depth of it.

‘I can’t crank the film.
Father’s death’s next.
The hole’s too big to jump.’

jaw bolts
eyes clamp


we hear a bus
scuffle.