another child squeezes its soft head into this building /
though leaves, flowers, trees, rapids, all is a building /
greater, grand opening every day /
and sales, sales, sales driven by the commission of exception /
on all items born yesterday, still conspiring /
why all this wordy faff just drives one crazy /
always something else to stir the inkwell /
not content to savour thread count or reflection in polished plates /
the construction crews work through the night /
constructing a launch pad in every quiet space /
tended meridians are perfect as are required green tracts /
stretching across the suburb’s pale arm /
get back to the orifice left behind before conception /
shared by the all not-I-yet /
consuming an airy, aired, airing meal /
grand enough for any galaxy still to be born /
time is leaving us /
not through the door as in the script /
but at dawn through every hinge in the house /
where the cracks are lubricated for noise not light /
grow more hands to climb the walls /
winning awards for just being there /
it’s never enough to divert traffic over the ledge /
but there must be a pageant /
to count more crowns even for the heads /
propping the door open for the next test blast
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