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Sport 27: Spring 2001
Children's Toys
page 22
Children's Toys
The overgrown airfield. The bare tree wresting
through asphalt and surrounded
by mouldering fruit. We pick over it, through it…
the shiny oozing heels. It's quiet here and
no dogs. The sky's pale fountain; your yielding smoke:
and inside, the ash departure lounge with its ticking walls.
Pick, pick, pick, pick. Wires spew
into our waiting pouches. We drink our fill
and rest out the glare—its immaculate gesture
a lost glove. You show my fingers
your kinked backbone. The very hairs
on our heads are numbered. We leave
murmuring our thank yous.