What do I know? Say there’s a screech owl
trapped in the coal cellar with dad’s ghost.
Say the last buffalo opens a gastro pub on the dock road.
Say the Titanic rises up in defence of icebergs.

It’s motives I look out for.
A subtext. A missing spoon. An open gate.
A seed stuck under the tongue, behind the dentures.
Rigor mortis.
Halloween in Tibet.

There’s the question of the angle of approach, east or west.
There’s spontaneous combustion. There’s a question of tears,
and blotting paper.
There’s the unsubtle question of blindness of heart.

Love comes in through the dancehall door. Fear sidles along the back wall. Joy’s drunk down by the bar.

Believe what the pilots say; they’ve seen this kind of storm.

Involve the coastguards

Keep your insurance up-to-date. You think it will be Harvest? Forget it!
Soon you’ll be as hungry as eels.

When what you think comes true, you were lying in the first place.
Nothing worth saying is worth saying except what you are just about to say.

How can you be saved if you think you’re at a poetry reading?
How will the magistrate make a sound judgement if she reads Thomas Hardy in Chinese?

Invoke your own deities, set up your own temple, say your own prayers.

On a Saturday morning, when the roads are empty between the Hackensack and the Hudson,
pull your hat way down over your eyes, check the stolen guns,
try not to fret about your gran’s lethal habits.
Don’t stop driving until you find something worth dying for.

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