Fractured

The mind is a jumble sale of images now:
        memories tangled like winter scarves, fingerless gloves,
and empty handbags tumbling inside a box

       in the back seat of a vintage car speeding through
the countryside I loved as a child. I can picture
       the hinterland so well, grazing my skin

like summer salt: the smell of tree-sap, warm as blood;
       the ancient buttonwood where I fractured a limb;
moonlight tattooing my bare shoulders
                                                               as I swam
         as I swim

    in the lighthouse beam that peeped
                                                                                through praying trees…
         or preying trees?

the jangling of a bicycle chain slipped
       loose
       in the rain…
    the clacking of a record player
       reaching
       the end

of Side A. I try flip to over it but something
gets the in way.
               Like leaves dry falling from trees,
they disappear before they touch the ground.

Fractured

I reach into the car as it stops
       but someone has taped up the box
              and their name…
                     why can I not recall their name?