By: Ross Maclean-Bryant
And I knew I’d do that through telephones.
The teletext confessionals
And the brashness of bones
Amidst the extendable nature of shortcuts,
The video games familiar,
Charging across the bowling green
With a famished pair of scissors
And though these fingers would grow about
The subtle mint conditioning,
Waiting for the seasonal décor
To become ironic,
Moonbeams would still spill on a spin cycle,
As dinner insisted upon getting cold.
We’d stare beyond the living room curtain,
The underbite of autumn stone,
Picking the fruits of meat hooks
And hanging paper from the walls.
You’d call from beneath the weather as it were,
Having tinged the average land with colour,
Turning the tides in teacups
And checking on the carrots