I Write

because my fingers are long and thin
and they can't grasp everything.
A lot of the time I keep them in my pockets.

Instead,
I balance things on the end of this pencil,
skewer them with it,
turn them around to get another view.

I encase them in graphite
so no one else can really see them
but we know they're there
in the shadows.


I can kiss the skin beneath your earlobe.
I can capture a bird and tame it.
Teach it to say your name or recite a poem.
I can make my father a kind man.
I can visit all the houses you ever lived in
or didn't.

I can resurrect the 2am ardour of room 203,
Pinjarra Motel,
and make it resemble the tv static
that lit it.
It dissipates.

I can wander from floor to floor, smiling,
can peer in windows.
I can replace the chattering teeth
with a thick heavy silence.
I can write an ode,
can make my father a kind man,

can swallow broken glass or swords.

I can catch a bullet between my teeth.
I can hold it.