belly of the whale

It’s a grey, overcast morning in Cheeseman Park

I am the writer and you are the spark

Together we’ve folded and mended and sewn

to prove we are adults and deserve what we own

 

I run my toe along the faultline

counting the creases like a trail of breadcrumbs

leading me back to the folds of my brow

dividing me from all means of qualification

 

I tremor, in sync with that ominous vibration

waiting for crocodile-hill to seize up again

that last glimmer of certainty has been buried

doomed to discipline in the belly of the whale

 

 

 

 

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