Touching cheeks like rollright stones.
Wander landscapes far from home.
Don’t presume to be the one
who’ll light the way for me
that’s not the point
of being here in the first place,
not the point at all.
You blinked at me across a gulf of cognition 18 inches wide,
flickered like a davy lamp long after the bird has died.
Sitting staring with epileptic vigour.
You know guilt, mate, so pull the trigger.
- an executioner’s policy of nonviolence, 23/02/08
