I had a dream that I was not free
The helicopter I can see through wintered windows
buzzes like a bat above allotments
spending their changeless days spying on
the notoriously-near suburban twin tube stations,
which I’d join with icy tape in the dark blue shock of
morning.
Every night, modern with disaster, the pride of the skies
clucks sudden and inevitable on its singular target
– which is me, curious and naïve - at a precise forty-five
degree.
Move, boy, move, to the back room where you’ll be safe
with the black cat purring like a machine with no cogs.
Here it comes the smoking agent of bright night, all
features framed in childlike wonder, blinking over the
newsagent
and the furniture showroom, pausing in kinship
with the crumbling cinema, bursting the bravest alien from
the sepia screen and spiralling to fill the frame of middle
age,
clicked and cut like newsreel over the chimney
of Sydney and Sally playing their morning saxophones
viciously like a jazz lullaby, of Phillip the cameraman
crying his love to sleep, of Dennis the luminous drunk hitting
his
pale children in the fragile explosive peace.
I had a dream that I was not free.
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