Flying forward, hard, down, horse-blur,
afternoon-mouthed locust clatter, the doors, buttering with weight,
went to the doors gain, falling was pounded into all the fissures,
gravity’s crammed stalks, gravity’s slanting gravel barley field.
Parkade-scrapped, diesel-soaked, the weight-flowering doors.
A hand seals itself to the collagened locks, the walls javelined three
quarters of an inch when people snicked through Randy’s skull, panels
of wet burnt logs, panels of waist length hair.
Amphorae, coke cans, the mountain sliding away,
decaying with sadness, gravity-bloom belonging to no one.
And the eyes in the doors, algae- shag, hoppings of alga,
gas in the doors eddies.
And the doors lifted their eyes
like hands to me.
And the brown trout dirty jerk of morphine moved under,
wolverine smile of deepening skin,
nosing in mineral necessity to what it knew: the walled city
where maybe ten oil lamps laboured in all the towers.