A Breaststroke Through Amber
by David Morris
won’t keep its hands
Alarms in rank
ready to run
Water summons sleep;
has it scatter on tile.
The duvet a ghost blanket.
The city dozing after
a big, long beep.
Trees brushing its air.
Nothing about tonight, Boss,
on one of its rounds.
A memory which tugs and hisses.
I follow the swoosh to a drain.
Wells stacked with tetrominos.
Taps run cotton wool.
I swim with salmon
back from the fill
of the ocean.
Hills in thrall to slopes
tell of footholds
on far inclines.
We’ll jump the floorboards below
lest they turn to metal ceiling.
What’s that? You want to meet
on the Highlands for snow?
OK, I’ll just shovel cloud
from the rest of the craters
before calling on the Cause Way.
Here We Go
by David Morris
Hug us, the pair of television sets said,
as the street screeched. Now take us to the
skip, they whispered, after I had kneeled.
So I did: after all, they’d carried black
and white in their backs; did the donkey
work before the colour came.
What about you? to the pair facing a hallway
wall. No, we’re fine, they said, we’ll be on our
way once the right draught comes in.
What’s this about a skip? shouted
a carousel horse, to which chariot
blinked and dragon rolled an eye.
I can’t take you, I said, taking a drag of a
cigarette; you’re the main draw. Give me
one of them, the horse snapped.
Don’t like the taste, it said, in-between
puffs: I just want something with a clear
beginning and end.
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