I wondered whether they were running drugs | across the country? | Her spirit mouldering | in a corner of a room | the walls a pistachio green | the pictures her children left her | slowly fading in the sun | You hid the river inside you, its cool black depths | secreted under your phone or demands | from the Revenue | all the time you wanted to float away | but could not | belonging as you did to attitudes | Filed under “Missing Persons” | she let the brightness in | put her head on a silver plate and carried it | the villagers | were lighting lanterns | was it a ceremony? | He didn’t know | being a stranger there, and even more | a stranger when he went home | Searching for the highest high | in backpacks and suitcases | died of thirst in a cargo hold | died of thirst | gradually, over time, being swept away, died | of thirst | in a long, black river…

Her children spread and married | some had kids | some stayed single | the buildings gathered | the gardens, the balconies | the lawns with plastic toys and barbecue area | and weeds | where some died by misadventure | some died from skyscraper fall | or from feeding their horses the wrong diet | or parachute failure | Their seedhead float | and slow, domestic diaspora | they thought they were tending pets | or buying charcoal | Mining silver | for the platter | and the stream | doesn’t flow in inches here, or inches there | but as one | and along its tangled thread | the spring is in touch with the sea | He turned into a donkey | and she into an ape | and in the gloom of their fable | fleas shared them | and the fleas | told a longer story | with a longer journey | and at the end | well, there was no end, just a kind of Well, anyway

from the series fp2 (on-going sequence of poems, commenced 2016)