In the box where we kept love illustrations,
I have put the map of a city
I drove toy cars around
when Houdini taught me the locks
of a space can change
if you think infinity. Like school.
We were small and wrapped
in tear-pages in the library.
The sun is a lightbulb spark.
There is a man in this foldable city
who stays in the same place,
weird from a heart-letter,
navigating time at the speed of my hands.
I have sold him an advert.
It says, That’s not lightning, it’s cocaine, boys!
He gets the jitters, vibrates his own form,
walks to the place a train station will exist
when I can set magnets at either side
of this continent and the metal
will know where to travel between.
The box is a well of handles
to doors that have retired
and abandoned shells we took
from the sea. It’s in here
that I know I never bought roses.
You thought it was a warped present
to get someone, something that dies.
I gather the shells from inside.
I’ll donate them to a vase maker,
they believe in life.
I’ll lock the handles into the air,
see what else I can open.
Syllable Syndrome 