• Vol. 07
  • Chapter 04
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The road opens, sharp as you like
yet changed in shape. The sky’s a lake,
that bored shopper a Gormley figure,
that framing kerb a flaring slab

of esoteric substance. Here
reality’s no more: the air’s
rid of its rain; the axis spins
and time is frozen. The road opens.

Now don’t be caught “waxing lyrical”
over a puddle. Spout about
the facts instead. A traffic light –
that reflected bit – “waxing” red,

giving instruction, brief yet clear,
arresting cars, and pedestrian
crossings permitting. Things take place.
You rhapsodise; the world’s not waiting.

The world. Who knew?
I popped out for a few essential items
and there it was, a straight-edged strip of ocean,
silver and blue.

I’m in it, waiting
to cross again, plastic bag on my arm.
Inverted as it is, this morning seems
the proper setting.