The sky is saturated.
In the next village, a girl
puts a puddle of pond in her pocket.
My heart is a goldfish dream. It leaks.
Last night as the hoarfrost left,
an owl died - not yours, thank god.
One of those born from a barn
behind the pylon of peculiarity.
The one that electrifies these fins
that wriggle underneath my skin.
The ones always swimming
and flipping, for you.
Someone's nanna once said that Elvis wasn't dead.
That the King of Rock & Roll had abandoned Graceland
for a glass bowl on a table in a kitchen with too many cups.
That he discarded his quiff for the circling, watery bliss
of back-finning through a place where sound swims slower;
hooks in deeper. Penetrates scales like buoys.
We laugh. Go home that night and fuck.
Imagine whales singing from jam jars on dusty shelves
belonging to some matronly deity adept at bread-making.
And if we eventually visit her, we'll watch 'Love Me Tender'
bubble through water that always turns cloudy on tuesdays.
And because of that slowness, how sound swims through water;
memories of long-gone fathers
crooning little things never said
or done from storm-wracked rooms
in far-out-to-sea houses where love
learns to drown inside nets of broken songs
singing from hinges of wardrobe doors
in corners full of darkness and air.
Until shoals of fish wearing skins
of little lost girls, learn how to paddle
through shadows without fear of lit fuses
reeled from fangs of dynamite monsters
that explode the soft ponds of living to pieces.