Parentheses

Sun­rises Sunsets.

Old songs, hanging out with other people’s pets.

Solved prob­lems, stolen groceries.

Not being on the internet

alone again at 2am.

Dan­cing until you break the heel off your

favour­ite boots, until you break into sweat;

until no one else is left

on the dance floor beside you

except for you, and you, and you, daggy music

and the light of the 4am full moon.

 

 

Warm after­noon bike rides beside friends

wind­ing through sub­urbs between

group-house, dirty-dish in sink, dens.

People in Pyja­mas still at 5pm.

 

 

People gentle with one another’s love;

giv­ing and keep­ing gifts of collaboration

tangled in the sheets of other people’s ideas,

time, stor­ies and beds.

Swim­ming out behind the waves

that roll and break on other swim­mers’ heads;

lift­ing, your body away from the centre of the earth

up towards a belt of stars;

the milky-girth of the swirling

uni­verse.

 

 

Sex fol­lowed by scrambled eggs.

The wicked grin that comes from drink­ing other people’s gin.

Everybody’s’ cook­ing,

and all of the legs -

because it’s not your fault for noti­cing that

every­one is just so good look­ing.

A dance in the pasta isle at the supermarket,

not caring if there’s any­one that’s going to stare,

while your housemates

grab the eggs, deter­gent, party cups and camembert

three isles up.

 

 

Open eyes and open irises

Open minds pulsing with idea viruses -

Curi­os­ity catch­ing on like an enquiry

inspir­ing contagion.

 

 

Climb­ing on sculptures,

get­ting naked at the Carillion.

All your friends

swim­ming and splash­ing beside you

with the lake bur­ley bends:

flash­ing cyc­lists and buses,

pub­lic ser­vants and politicians

on the way home from work.

 

 

Being on the internet

alone again at 2am.

 

 

Old friends, new faces.

Back yard music and singing at the sky

to let it know that we don’t care

if we can’t get shel­ter from its rain,

We don’t care if it is going to pour down upon us

again and again and again,

and make us cold, because we have

hot drinks, dan­cing and whisky at home.

 

 

Smil­ing at strangers, hands in hands

and hands through hair.

And then:

Howl­ing at the moon.

Howl­ing at cars.

Howl­ing at any­thing until

you’re left won­der­ing what kind of

dog, or chimp or animal you are.

 

 

Fall­ing asleep with the world spin­ning the feet

off the end of your bed.

Awak­ing to won­der about the adventures

As they slowly mosaic their way back into your

unwieldy head.

Wak­ing to walk the mountain,

start­ing all over again,

with its sun­rises and sunsets.

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