on transition by Celestine Stilwell

as breath spills into blood, my body rises
feasting on something synthetic
and spooling out into unannounced
                                                        stubble

in a terraced house streaked with rain
this cactus is flowering
                                                                       and I dream
that

                                                   a goose arrives early in the hotlands
        searching the sky for a flutter
that has not yet left shores
where fishermen point their rods
like Great English Columns
towards nothing much at all

here, there’s only a pulp of sun
that calls out

it is okay to bask
somewhere that did not know
you were coming

 

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