A red door opens off a cliff.
You step
and the sea below is just static.
This must be Wales:
you’ve never been. You just know.
You’re in a helicopter over the Pacific
with Amelia Earhart. She points down
at a tear shaped island,
says over the intercom:
Yes, we’ve finally found it:
the place where I died.
You see the boy with curly hair
lost from the neighbour’s yard
for 30 years. He's trapped
in the hydraulic thresher
of the weir,
that drowning machine
near the tackle shop
that sells ice cream.
The alarm rips open the room,
ice breaking your sleep.
You sit up in your bunk bed
In this hotel like a ship,
feel for your empty
glass of tap water.
At a bar in the East Village you turn
to tell these stories to a friend,
over Patsy Cline on the jukebox.
But his eyes are just clouds.
He says:
The ocean is rising.
Soon all of this will be horizon.
