Count a birth

Once I was foolish enough

to direct magic at the

threshold of a simple fate.

Fortune swam a mother’s womb

(vivacity of random order)

sex’s creativity.

Heavenly lightning bolted

- heat and helix were guided

nonplussed by crazy harmony

- then a single cry was born.

Shoot

I pulled

an air gun

and (at the speed of sound)

another

word flew.

Ghost

At my Aunt’s funeral

the relatives were looking at knees and toecaps

in those little moments where words

feel not quite right – less conditioned

spots of vacancy and mystery

made empty by the undertaker screwing down a lid’s

four corners with a practical turn of his wrist.

Next day we caught sunnier weather

and my Uncle, face alight, skeleton moving,

screwed the top off a whiskey bottle

he’d had his beady-eye on for 21 years

‘You can only drink it when I’m gone’

she’d said;

and the liquid winked in the light.