I am again travelling between islands
on accidental pilgrimage, the setting
of foot and chin to shift and swell.
I should be subtler. I run the risk
of becoming parable, material.
A that a this. The flutter of tides a bed-wetting.
I had planned to proffer
myself as gift. But something tells me when I get
to customs, unmanned, someone will ask: What
was it, again, you’d cut your right hand off for?
I find myself again travelling between islands
on accidental pilgrimage, the setting
of foot and chin to shift and swell.
I should be subtler. I run the risk
of becoming parable or, worse, material.
A that a this. The flutter of tides a bed-wetting.
I think that I am coming to proffer
myself as gift, but something tells me that when I get
to arrivals, a customs officer will ask: What
was it, again, you’d cut your right hand off for?
Copyright: Peter Mackay
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