your eyes watching, hub for every step out following each child, networking the family.

in mid-stream of make-believe, left in the rain, waiting 50 yrs in the superstore car park, we could meet again.

prone, on your back, watching the underbelly of night pass.

encircle the damp sod, muster hope.

the tarmac ghost strides, a glad heart lends purpose, be surefooted in your pursuit of the exit.

what is left to burn? indecent history, wasted opportunity, the pearlescent illusion of transfiguration.

the system manual, written in a room with men and keyboards, has no appendix for the messy cries of the lost.

for some numbers are riches, a sonnet rising and falling, all life transposed into order.