You had no centre or core. You bobbed up & down
without purpose. You stood at the edge of the harbour
& prayed for the edges of your world to
stop escaping into space. You
believed in the method.
You got out of dodge. The collective eluded you.
You’ll be fine.
You were the type that whispered
to your friends about the aesthetics of the engine,
of the metropolis, as the ballot slowly danced
a two-step & turned on its heel.
You were beautiful.
Ah, these lonely sounds. Don’t thank
the master for them. The master invented language,
the rules of verse, recast his head & history
for the demon who loved him, his god, became red
all so some fucker could rub up against him in bed
when his lover was away.
In the Bay of Thieves a boat
draws in to the island, the kinsfolk sing
this cannot go on for long, another year maybe
Andrew F Giles has work in various journals and anthologies. He’s currently researching Spanish poetry and poetics at Bristol University.