Alpha: New Metro Station

Trains growl along their tracks,
echoing the sound of my coffee grinder on brisk, winter mornings.
Travellers wait on the platform,
tense, friable biscuits sitting on their patch of unmarked concrete.
"Adelaide", "Sydney", "Perth", "Express":
signs placed with the symmetry of bridges.
"Arrivals" and "Departures", but my
sigh is a sign: your hands in mine;
blood contracting like fresh vines.

The whistle blows, quite near now,
striking like free-form needle-point practiced by the blind.
Too late, to trace the rim of your frozen lips -
I stutter. To be thrown into your dark spaces
or into your sun by a good-bye.
To remain near or keep myself complete, far away.
Question answers itself, and you enter your designated prism.
Left whole - again. Standing among
the aging newspapers, and unloved plastic cups,
at Alpha, New Metro station.

 

Eve and the Arrow

The apple is always the target.
Eve only fashioned the arrows.
We warp our bows. Our arrows fly off
course - lost among pigeons and seagulls.
Always lick the apple juice on the back
of your hand before you take aim.