I've lived in all times but these.
Going uncharted, through lands
i've only heard of in pubs
The crossing is a hop
over a low wall
and into brambles
Where I'm from,
the sea never allowed
for fruit and flowers
There was only
the blast, rolling
off the water
The air here
is patient. The people here
are patient
They've never been
on borrowed time.
Boredom belongs to them
And it's hard
to recognise
their joy
This, a balm,
to a girl who knows
happiness in others,
only as the white-eyed,
frothing panic
of consumption.
I am in a different land
They tell the time
much as we do,
But it counts for less