His heart inside a large vegemite jar
held dark viscous in state
salty as a collection basin
Those omnibus tears
rattle against the label
if I turn the screw top clockwise
Only a little, only a little at a time
There breaks a sound
a keen of parent reading a story book
an outlet release of infant hands
Then circles alphabets borderless
frayed and shredding pointers
passwords un entire
Only this morning, only for a while
I could not remember breakfast
and left the supermarket unpaying
the staff were kind
But there’s the sun half in the Indian Ocean
a wild west decline in a fire alight
toddler arms and sobbing at my neck
As though the grazed knees might never heal
An anti-turn, and anti-click slow ambience of return
the fuzz of jack in the box memory
caught between the edges hauls out its tongue
Every thing and not a thing
sticking exiting gravel
all placed in set and beaking about underneath
Gliding unready, gliding unready out of swan song
Published in Poppy Road Review September 2019
James Walton Poetry 