In the morning media rustle
we look for our vertebrae
our balance, anything sensible
shoes or daycream
encase out nipples although
we fancy being free
as the train gushes and swallows
tickets and selfies, hi-vis
and daydream
Then the city’s coarse daylight
opens its cracks
the paving jerk, escalator drag
a last gulp
so our mouths might swell
with sexual tannins
a café’s smoke tongue
before swipe and thrust
Goodbye cruel air, you weepy green trees
crushed yellow light
The lift slackens to the tenth floor
We remember nothing now
apart from the gash in night
good ol’ dog Sleep
running about under red moon
and white cliffs and how
we fall there, and there
Oh Venus I don’t forget you
in the spread
of tinted morning, the grids
I’ve wandered far in circles
around your heights
without shoes or sensibilities
I don’t forget you
and how I’ve climbed
into another balance, cusp
flexure, fold
another arc and then
another
Jill Jones’ most recent books include Viva the Real (UQP), Brink (Five Islands Press), Breaking the Days (Whitmore Press), which was shortlisted for the 2017 Kenneth Slessor Award, and a chapbook, The Leaves Are My Sisters (Little Windows).
