Tuesday, October 18, 2011


The intervals between trains are shrinking,
streetlights shaking —
one or two blink out
with every repercussion.

Planes fly lower and lower,
guard dogs whimper, and
every so often
a seismograph flutters

as if to warn us
that the orbits are out of whack,
that waves rake the ocean floors
and the hairs on the backs of cats

stand on end
because something unparalleled
is about to happen.
Light a candle, stock the cupboard —

alarms and sirens
have cancelled the silence.
Pay no attention to screams or the jitters —
when someone bolts, everyone bolts.

Whatever you say, say nothing
as a bystander
amongst the panic and the vomit,
do nothing and nothing will bend.

(published in Southerly, 2011)