Oh Venus, that Zenith

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).