Open your hands.
There is a scene beginning to gather.
Let the touch slide freely.
Beneath the diamond skies.
Being prepared in receiving.
Stretch out your fingers.
Before the crush of rigor mortis sets in.
There is a movie house screen show.
Let us be ignorant.
And guide our way home.
Loosen your fists.
Turn a tide against impatience.
Dropping knives and metals.
There is a comforting nick.
In an honest trade.
Soften your grip.
Implode your old weapons.
The sweat and blood and filth.
Falling from you.
There is something I don’t know what it is.
Open your hands in the meantime.
There is an icy comet.
That dreamt us a supernova.
To keep the wolf at the door.
Warming a pile of old bones.
Point me your favourite star.
Distraction’s friend of solution.
There’s an unneighbourly neighbourhood.
By standing at a distance.
Keeps packing them in.
Show us your palm.
The future is certain.
Any way you look at it.
There is a deathly presence.
Washing up like a storm breeze.
Slacken the muscles.
We shouldn’t need you long.
To be better off.
From a wintery temper.
There is nothing to see here but doubt.
Greg Fiddament
illustration Nick Victor