Friday, 3 November 2017


not finding
my father
I found hers
like dodgy knees
one of those things
which ran
in our family


Today, I fix the past with knives and forks.
I grasp then carve. I grab until my hands
are full and nail a feast of question marks
along the wall. The handle smashes nails
and plaster, masonry and paint; the brick
beneath the surface breathes out orange dust.

The question marks lie broken on the floor;
they could not stay in place. I pick them up
and rearrange each broken line till words
appear. I rearrange them once again,
then twice, then three times, over and over, shaping
new words: the infinite variety
of answers. Standing back, I look again,
and see that all I have are question marks.


I was the tree which did not grow.
I drew myself upon a page:
stick arms; stick legs; stick body; head.

They all became unstuck. Without
your roots, you f
              a                              l
l                              a
     p                                    a
t with ease.