in the eye hospital

on Old Hall Street

mum shows them her right eye

 

they pull back the lid

like lifting a dogblanket,

and come in close with

their steel and flip charts.

 

seems she’s seeing

things from her point of view-

 

and that’s why she smashed

the window pane with a hammer.

 

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The next time you hear a robin sing in your garden,

remember a long-lost episode from Doctor Who

– (gutted by the king’s troops in 1644).

 

The tower house surrounded by a curtain

33 million years ago, songbirds regenerate a branching pattern,

(New Guinea barely existed in Erskine.)

 

Save for Antarctica, blue tits in the Tardis, magpies

preached in the chapel of Dun, the three of them

island-hop to the planet Vulcan. (A tiny pterosaur),

 

William Hartnell, before the changes in the mausoleum,

is poorly preserved, bone-hollow as John Knox, that

Presbyterian (1.5 metres wide, an aridification).

 

Gutted? A glance at a globe of family trees, evolution

only aired fully in New Zealand. The wingspan of the chapel

foundations (a castle the size of a small challenge, 4’11”)

 

has eager viewers. Long-distance dispersal, a handful of clips

originating in Australia, The Virgin Mary, a clergyman, Polly and Ben,

outdoors that day, listen, glance, ( a telltale) (Antipodean) twang.

 

 

Mum’s calling me in the alley,

but I’m too far,

or she is. Either way,

now I’m calling her-

 

come in, Mum,

let’s eat Time,

gravy, chips.

A Show is all I want, a frightened giggle, say, or a tricky trick. The circus has undressed its lion, whose feeble claws rake the legal highs twinkling in Redcatch Park’s applauding arena of cloud. What’s high in this vista of negligent glory? Orange. Pigeons.

you’re dizzy

with anticipation

of an ending;

 

drama rains,

of course into-

 

-through holes

in laughter’s humidity;

 

whatever vision/spasm

is uppermost –

 

in or out

or both.

 

 

I sit back, then lie

on the recliner, as

 

the fourth sunset

over the neighbour’s

 

roof blazes then

haloes; two sentinel

 

chimneys parallel-oversee

what I can’t. Fire

 

in the universe, and

weeping windows,

 

the end of the life

in the heart of warmed

 

tiles.

 

I say nothing.

But this is impossible

the guard takes off his shoes

I won’t confess

to what is impossible.

this is fiction.

I did the impossible everything

and more. Take this tangerine,

he shouts. I do.

My palm is empty blaze.

I cannot eat. Who is the killer god?

The pip.