​living off the edge

​sometimes i feel stuck in the foreplay of a warm vaporous dream

*

i’m fascinated by this detachment of being – not being

i crave for new sounds – for intakes of fresh air – for

living off the edge of a clock 

each day is transformative – each day rubs forecasts wrongly

corrugated clouds scrape changing summits 


people don’t vanish that easily – they sleep amongst religious landfills

*
 
on the road – i cross a bridge – a lagoon – a fountain at work 

often – a self-made fantasy rises from the water

i struggle with the mnemonics of a coded self – silhouettes

known to me – light fires in the dark

---

strange alliance

​the movement is quick
        methodical
i pull off my jersey
         the sun folds it neatly

followers of the man
in the grey boiler suit
        talk tactics
             for standing on street corners
slapping graffiti
on people’s faces

        the day is hooked
as if by its nose
sniffing at cherry blossoms
         the wild life of children
at female office workers
sitting on lawns
unwrapping aspects of their menfolk

==

around The Square      i count my paces

this ritual never changes
i take ownership of the footpaths
then stop by the carved Taiapa gate

==

i grab my jersey
put it on            the church
creaks of wood & brick
with too much carbon dioxide
on its breath      sparrows
      land on crucifixes      old marble prophets
a renaissance figure of human light at the door

==

you arrive you kiss
there’s more to this      the sky 
condenses steam into herbal-laced
mixtures      & hands-on practitioners
drink up
​
& anything newsworthy 
instantly disrupts      dissolves

==

a sudden exposure
forces us apart
to find new spaces     a youth

plays his flute
to whoever’s riding the clouds
the wind gusts
or thrusting nature’s accessories
at invisible crowds

he’s the sole occupant of his island
logged in & feeding on music

he plays his flute drinks coffee
sticks his fingerprints
on landmarks for the blind
for the hard of hearing

some rituals never change

==

i smell the sweat of nearby sounds

of stacks-on-the-mill offices 
   
we expect a lot
from opening books      discussing good art
ensuring
the blue mosaic roof of the museum is part of the sky

==

we enter the long-distance lens
of the grey-garbed performer
preaching about the first birth
first howl
first mouthful of meat

==

at the Taiapa gate
scraps of voices are picked over 
by workers returning to their homes

early moonlight
chalks the footpaths
whitens the bridge
fondles stones

we mind map a long night’s journey
into the contours of a metamorphosis
a strange alliance
emerges      we let
body cells liquefy
extract core samples
from our solar centres
& for a short time
we live spellbound
attracted      our seasons 
all entangled

---

Iain Britton is an Aotearoa New Zealand poet and author of several poetry collections. His work has been nominated for a Forward Prize for Best Single Poem and Best First Collection. Poems have been published in such magazines as Harvard Review, Poetry, The New York Times, Stand, Agenda, New Statesman, Wasafiri, Prototype, New Humanist. THE INTAGLIO POEMS was published by Hesterglock Press 2017. A new chapbook - Project Constellation - has just been launched by the London publisher Sampson Low.

---